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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



Flowers by the Wayside 



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ILLUSTRATED 







THE CO-OPERATIVE PUBLISHING CO 
COLUMBUS O 



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COPYRIGHT 1891 

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The C'o-Opj.kativk Publishing Co 



PKESS OF 

H A N N & A r> A I K 

COLUMBUS <) 







■Bill 




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Sonnet 65 



Sinee bPass, nop stone, nop eaPth, nop boundless sea, 
But sad moPtality o'efsmays theip pouuep, 
flotu uiith this page shall beauty hold a plea, 
IZihose aetion is no stPongep than a flotuep? 
O, hotu shall summep's honey bPeath hold out 
Hcjainst the uUPeekful siege of batteping days, 
When poeks imppegnable ape not so stout, 
T4op gates of steel so stPong, but time decays ? 
O feapful meditation! uuhepe, alaek, 
Shall Time's best jemel fpom Time's ehest lie hid? 
Op uihat stPong hand ean hold his smift foot back? 
Op uuho his spoil of beauty ean foPbid ? 

O, none I unless this mipaele have might, 

That in blaek ink my love may still shine bPight." 

— Shakspeare. 



CONTENTS. 



The Lesson of the Leaves Thomas Wentworth Higginson 7 

The Dying Day M. S. Greene 8 

Ode to a Screech Owl J. P. Russell 9 

At Parting Ways Alonzo Leora Rice 10 

The Spring in the Lane Lura E. Brown 1 ] 

Summer Night J. B. Naylor (S. Q. Lapius) .".' 12 

Love Light E. A. Wingard 13 

New Year Fancies Grace Hibbard 14 

The Passing of the Sword M. E. H. Everett 15 

Alone . Lydia Piatt Richards 16 

Autumn Musings E. M. P. Brister 17 

The Muse. . . : Robert Loveman 17 

Forty Years Ago Mrs. C. M. Allanson 18 

Happenings Caroline W. D. Rich 19 

Love's Song Ellen Knight Bradford 20 

Night , . M. J. Lochemes 20 

In the Court of the King Florence May Alt 21 

Ballad to a Bouquet Alonzo Leora Rice 23 

Old Wooden Church in the Grove . . .John B. Ketchum 24 

Woman's Silence Cy Warman 25 

A Christmas Canto W. Y. Demaree 26 

Whither Pauline Carrington Rust 28 

Waiting Sidney E. Powell 29 

Poesy Mrs. M. Wintermute 30 

The Falling of the Snow Henry Ed. Nothomb 31 

Romeo and Juliet Robert Loveman 32 

Hopes Ruth Ward Kahn 32 

The Grave of Theo. Koerner at 

Wo ebbeliu P. Hgen 33 

The Wild Bee H. F O'Bevine 34 

The Wind . . Robert Loveman 35 

Child of the Sea Chas. W. Hills 36 

At the Organ Chester W T ood 37 

A Withered Flower E. S. Hulin 38 

Woman's Sympathy Daniel Gamble 39 

To the South Wind Esther Conrad 41 

Water Francis S. Saltus 42 

The Old River Bridge W. V. Lawrence 43 

Beholden as in a Mirror Ida Withers Harrison 45 

To Lulu Wesley Couchman 45 

Murder Gilbert L. Eberhart 46 

Man Robert Loveman 46 

Der Oak und der Vine Chas. Follen Adams 47 

Hyssop G. W. Devin 48 



VI CONTENTS. 

Coming Home N. H. Albaugh 49 

The Old Dream Chas. W. Hills 50 

The Monk's Vision Mabel Cronise Jones 51 

The Overture ('has. H. A. Esling 55 

Sing Out, My Soul Ruth Ward Kahn 57 

1 Didn't Think Clara Adele Neidig 58 

What is D- ath C. M. H. Wright 59 

A Study for a Picture Nan YV. Healy 60 

Moon-Music Francis S. Saltus 60 

A Pastoral Picture J. W. ( 'raw lord (Capt. Jack) . . 61 

The Falling Leaves P. D. Etue 62 

The Orthod-ox Team Fred Emerson Brooks 63 

The Messiah's Star Henry A. Jeffries 65 

As a Mustard Seed Adaline Hohf Beery 66 

Motherhood Clara Louise Burnham 66 

A Storm Lyric Edgarda Williams 67 

Waking the Baby Clara Adele Neidig 68 

I ( annot Forget Thee Mrs. M. A Senter 69 

The South Wind Franklin E. Denton 76 

The Revelation I. S. Smith 71 

A Tribute to a Pride M. Wintermute 72 

Tree and Leaf Joseph ( look 73 

Dreaming . . .Grace Hibbard 74 

( Jolden Rod Caroline W. D. Rich 74 

The Message W. B. Scabrook 75 

The Caged Nightingale Otto Soubron 76 

Whom Others Envy Rose Hartwick Thorpe 77 

The Years L. Adda Nichols 78 

Beyond the Shadows I. M. Budd 79 

To Mobile Bay L. Irwin Huntington 80 

December Henry A. Jeffries 81 

The Mistletoe C. S Percival 82 

June Wesley ( ouchmau 83 

The Neglected Flute I. (i Pulling 84 

My Mothers Face E. M. P. Brister 85 

Asleep with Jackson T. C. DeLeon 86 

A Lesson for ( isesars Otto Soubron 88 

You Chas. L. Dean 89 

My Garden Clara Adele Neidig 90 

Au Editorial ( 'ontrast J. W. ( 'rawford (Capt. Jack) . . 91 

On the Death of a Child P. I). Etue <rj 

To-morrow Adaline Hohf Beery it:! 

<) Moaning Sea Caroline W. D. Rich 94 

First Love Ruth Ward Kahn 94 

Sub Monteni Helen Marr Hurd 95 

The Dying Gypsy Girl M. F. Hubner 96 

A Winter Lawn Fay Hempstead 97 

Dead Dreams Elizabeth Kantz 98 

A Disinherited Knight Tilford Davis, Jr !)!» 

The Song of the Shell Junius L. Hempstead 101 



CONTENTS. Vll 

The Grateful Rain S. M. Watson 102 

The Old Norse King Tommie S. Turner 103 

Winter, and the Poor James Thomas Ward 104 

In Twilight Hours Clarence H. Urner 105 

A Song Flower Sophie H. Ellis 105 

Jephthah's Daughter Fred Myron Colby 106 

Milton Mary M. Currier 107 

Rural Innocence S. Dyer 108 

Autumn Leaves Harriet Warner ReQua 109 

Two Sunsets Linda Schermerhorn Hibner. . 110 

A Trill of Song Adelaide Stout Ill 

Here Below Cy AVarman 113 

The Fife Gilbert L. Eberhart 114 

Acrostic E. S. Hulin 115 

The OP Fence Row J. B. Naylor, (S. Q Lapius) ... 116 

The Bar of The Columbia Dwight Williams 117 

Apple Blossoms Dwight Williams 117 

Cupid is Abroad To-night J. B. Nay lor (S. Q. Lapius) 118 

Noon in Florida Ida Withers Harrison 119 

Now Thank Ye All Our God Chas. D. Piatt 120 

The Immortal Hymn E. Harriet Howe 121 

The Dead W. B. Seabrook 122 

Mountain Home G. H. Walser 123 

Evening Shadows Hettie A. Martin 124 

Scattering Largess M. E. H. Everett 1 25 

Revealed John M. Stahl 126 

Angelus Bells F. Schreiber 127 

Man's Heritage William S. Lord 128 

The Fire Grenade J. B. Smiley 129 

For His Dear Sake Kate B. Sherwood 130 

Nearer My God and Thee Cy Warman 131 

Doubt Margaret Price 132 

Be True F. E. McFadden 133 

Under the Leaves Jean Kate Ludlum 134 

Robin, Sweetheart Caroline D. Swan 135 

Sunshine on the Trail J. W. Crawford (Capt. Jack) . . 136 

All Alone Mrs. E. A. Weed 137 

Thy Will be Done C. A. Shaler 138 

The Moonlight Sarah Knowles Bolton 139 

Like 'er Ma J. B Naylor, (S. Q. Lapius) ... 140 

A Thunderstorm in the Valley A. S. Condon 142 

Dormitavi Mary Grant O'Sheridan 144 

The Goodnight Gilbert L. Eberhart 144 

The Legend of the Rainbow F. W. Bradley 145 

Tbe Violinist Robert Loveman 146 

Longing Mary C. Ryan 147 

New Year's Greetings Annie Laura Barnes 148 

At Evening Time Mrs. C. M. H. Wright 149 

Some Day E. Harriet Howe 150 

Twilight Rowena M. Cook 151 



Viii CONTENTS. 

A Summer Night Hettie A. Martin 152 

The Last Journey E. A. Weed 153 

Those Eyes of Brown Charles Wesley Kyle . . •. 154 

Regret Fannie May Gibbes ' 155 

Woman's Influence W. D. Turnley 156 

The Old Bridge Sarah A. Jenekes 157 

Eugenie William Byrd Chisholm 159 

The Engineer's Funeral Mrs. M. K. Colburn 181 

Life's Yesterdays D. E Millard 102 

Carol <>f the Seasons W. 1). Townsend 163 

Mother E. A. Wingard 105 

Our Hopes H. F. O'Bevine 107 

An Autumn Evening E. II. Diehl 168 

.Jack Frost, the Artist J. B. Naylor (S. Q. Lapius) .... 109 

A-Maying Sarnie W. ( 'rosby 1 70 

For the Love of Lady May Mrs. E. J. Nicholson (Pearl Rivers) 171 

Ave Maria S. M. Bent 1 73 

Questions Edward ('. Downing 174 

Dawn at Lake Maggiore Rev. A . Jones ; 1 75 

The Genii of Wine N. K. Griggs 177 

Disconsolate Gilbert L. Eberhart 179 

Ol' Tobacker Patch I. B. Nayler, (S. Q. Lapius) .. ISO 

In the Fall Alice R, Mylene 182 

The Winds are Blowing E. L. Macomb Bristol 183 

The Brook Across the Road ...Edwin Ralph Collins 184 

The Trailing Arbutus Anne ( Jarduer Hale 185 

A Sabbath in the Country W. W. Runyan 186 

After the Ball Gilbert L. Eberhart 188 

Love's Keverie W. H. Ferber 189 

The Modern Bacchante Rosalie M. Jonas 190 

The Cowboy N. K. Griggs 1 91 

Returned With Thanks Edwin F. Taber (E. F. Liutaber) 193 

Presentiments Mary Lambert 1 94 

The Wind Clara Tear 195 

Not Y'r Tocher Ama Lauretta Washburn 1 !»<> 

Napoloen and Josephine Ellen E. Hebron 197 

What the Lilacs Heard Kate A. Bradley 199 

Through Winding Ways ( 'lara Adele Neidig 200 

Summer Reveries Mrs. L. J. H. Frost 201 

Winter Thoughts Thos. J . Farley 202 

Bereavement L. B. Hartman, D. D 203 

The Old Meadow Patch .lean La Rue Burnett 204 

My Lady Rosalie M. Jonas 205 

The Pool M. V. Dudley (Lester Hollis) . 205 

In Memoriam H. Theodore Johnson 200 

Love Lillian Plunkett 207 

The Peter Bird Henry T. Stanton 208 

Self- Abnegation in Love Lita Angelica Rice 210 

" When Wouldst Thou Die'2 " F. P. Kopta 21 1 

The Old Field M. V. Dudley (Lester Hollis) . 212 



CONTENTS. IX 

A February Sky Ida Belle Evans 213 

Shelley and Keats Rosalie M. Jonas 214 

Trust Thou in God John P. Ross 214 

Shadows Jennie Gerald 215 

The Echo in the Heart Lewis W. Smith 216 

Vain Regrets Estelle Mendell 216 

Rest Rosa Vertner Jeffrey 217 

To a Wife Leonard Brown 219 

William Shakespeare Mrs. J. G. Maurer 221 

Two Lights J. P. C. McPnee 223 

Trust in God Magdalene I. La Grange 224 

My Lassie Emeriue Stratton Rees 225 

The Transplanted Floweret ... Daniel Gamble 226 

Autiphonals Simeon Tucker Clark 227 

"Auld Lang Syne » M. L. Carter 228 

One Morning in the Garden E. I. Jacobson (Isidorus) 229 

Autumnal T. Park Bucher 230 

The Pronoun " I " J. Buchanan Siders 232 

Engraven E. L. Macomb Bristol 233 

New England C H. Pratt 234 

Clouds and Sunshine Ellen E. Hebron 235 

Blight-Bloom Isadore G. Jeffrey 237 

Welcome Autumn Bert Wilson Huffman 238 

A Prayer Alice D. Porter 239 

Loves Coming ('apt. R. Kelso Carter 239 

The Chink of the Pay Thomas Boundy 240 

The Death of Summer ...... Charles Wesley Kyle 241 

Now I Lay Me Ruth Ward Kahu 243 

Memories Evabelle Simmons 244 

The Erlking and the Flowers Junius L. Hempstead 245 

To a Water Lily F. E. McFadden 247 

Nature's Theater S. H. Daley 248 

To Byron's Dying Gladiator A. T. Monroe 249 

A Song of Thanksgiving T. Berry Smith 250 

The Mad Minstrel Maria A. Augur 251 

On the Sea A. L. Campbell 252 

Pools in the Sand Mrs. Jas Tucker (Margaret May) 253 

Mating Time .Estelle M. Amory 254 

Mother's Doughnuts Barbara R. Garver 255 

Spring Morn Voices Jacob B. Dockendorff 257 

Morning Simeon Tucker Clark 259 

Apostrophe to June Mrs. L. J. H. Frost 260 

Looking Outward T. Park Bucher 261 

Marc Antony's Death Eugene A. Davis 263 

The Sweet Wild Rose W. H. H. Hinds 264 

A Song of the Unattained Robert Rexdale 265 

Brother, Faint Not Jacob B. Dockendorff 266 

Wheu the Brown is Mixed With Gray. John M. Stahl 267 

A Grey Day By the Sea Mrs J. H. Rogers 268 

Upon the River Thos. J. Faney 269 



X CONTENTS. 

Stonewall Jackson Mary H. McCaleb 270 

The Past and Future N. A. Woodward 272 

The Ivy John W. Eddy 274 

Moonlight Hours C. H. Pratt 276 

To the North Wind T. Berry .Smith 277 

A Violet Mrs. Jas.Tueker . Margaret May) 278 

In Cloudland M. V. Dudley ( Lester Hollis) . . 279 

In Memoriam A. T. Monroe 280 

Adrift Alton E. Billiard 282 

October F. A. Hikes 283 

Would You Regret Josie D. Henderson - Heard. . . . 284 

The South Laud Manlius T. Flippiu 286 

The Prodigal Daughter Larry Chittenden 288 

A Midnight Reverie I. H. Edwards 288 

My Little Pard J. W. Crawford (Capt. Jack) . . 289 

To Orvilla J. W. Everett 290 

Wild Poses O. E. Young 291 

Seeking the Light Esther T. Housh 292 

A Song W. V. Lawrence 293 

Is it Not Like Henry W. Naisbitt 294 

The Stars Shine Out Walter Taylor Field 295 

The Coining of Night Theo. C. Atchison 295 

Lessons of Life W. F. Fonvielle 296 

Summer Night Mrs. L. B. Marquis 297 

A Twilight Dream Mrs. O. C. Jones 298 

At Love's Gate Thomas S. Collier 300 

( ompensation W. V. Lawrence 301 

Dead Mrs. H. B. ( 'arter 302 

The Burial at Sea George W. Warder 303 

Those Willow Whistles Like My 

Grandpa Used to make Ted Rantz 305 

A Sea Thought Helena M. Tucker 307 

The Garden Seat Theo C. Atchison 308 

The Swiss " Good-night " Geo. Bancroft Griffith 310 




Cfye Wesson of tfye Scapes 



THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. 



f\ THOU who bearest on thy thoughtful face 
The wearied calm that follows after grief, 
See how the autumn guides each loosened leaf 
To sure repose in its own sheltered place. 

Ah, not forever whirl they in the race 

Of wild forlornness round the gathered sheaf, 
Or hurrying onward in a rapture brief 
Spin o'er the moorlands into trackless space. 

Some hollow captures each ; some sheltering wall 
Arrests the wanderer on its aimless way ; 
The autumn's pensive beauty needs them all, 

And winter finds them warm, though sere and gray. 
They nurse young blossoms for the spring's sweet call, 
And shield new leaflets for the burst of May. 



£Cl7c Ikying x)ay 



''"PHIS summer day is dying! Pulseless seems 
Great Nature's throbbing heart. The hour 
So still that in the golden sunset's gleams 
Enchantment broods o'er field and flower! 

A sombre pall is falling on the slope 

Of yonder hillside; and all sound, 
That tells to human hearts of love and hope, 

Is hushed in silence most profound. 

The trees have ceased to wave their leafy arms; 

Unheard are all their soft refrains; 
The whispering zephyrs, with their cooling charms, 

Repose, as blushing daylight wanes. 

The tranquil river dreams in peaceful sleep ; 

Its fancies portents of the night; 
For in its depths the fleecy cloudlets creep, 

And star-gems drop their tears of light. 

Unto my spirit comes a holy calm, 

Like unseen odors round me shed ; 
As if a hand divine hath laid its palm 

In benedictions on my head. 

Fainter yet the lessening light appears, 
As night moves on its gloomy way! 

The mourning skies dissolve in dewy tears, 
And darkness shrouds the lifeless day. 

And so, methinks, our own brief day may end, 
When darkness shades our mortal eye ; 

So may, in love, the weeping heavens bend 
In peaceful watchings where we lie, 

8 



(D6e to a Screed? (Dvol 



J. P. RUSSELL. 



T ITTLE screechowl whimpering thing, 

In your night song sorrowing, 
With your night dress all awry, 
Doleful is your plaintive cry ; 
In your ruffled coat of brown, 
You are here to wake the town, 
With your whinnowing, mournful trill, 
Trem'lous notes as if to spill 
Your frail fabric into chill. 

As upon my bed I lie, 
I am wak'd by your dread cry, 
As you sit in door-yard tree, 
Your sad dirges trouble me, 
And mine is a mournful home, 
Sadden'd by your monotone. 

Oh, for music's soothing cheer ! 
For the bluebird's warblings clear, 
Music melting as it were 
On the listing, ling'ring ear. 

For the lark's exultant ring, 
As he mounts the air to sing, 
Resting on the quiv'ring wing, 
As if downward song to fling. 

Rising on the sunlit air, 
Heavenly message his to bear, 
Higher, higher lost in light, 
'Till he dwindles from the sight, 
Liquid music there distills, 
Heav'nly mission there fulfills. 
Pausing then as if to cheer, 
Heaven and earth, so each may hear, 
Then descends on graceful wing 
With his earth-born mates to sing:. 



Or the bluejay's rasping cry, 
Telling us that summer's nigh, 
Mischief in her game-lit eye, 
Shames she your lone monody ; 
Pipings shrill as clarinet, 
Clad in sable colleret, 
Tufted cap of clearest blue, 
Her's a style to banish you. 

E'en the bull-toad's voice ajar, 
Rises 'bove your dirge afar, 
As it floats upon the air, 
Yours excels beyond compare, 
Haste you —haste you, get away, 
Cease your visits here, I pray, 
If you wish to serenade, 
Get you to the wooded glade. 



Ctt parting XDays 

ALONZO LBORA RICE. 

"DESIDE the garden in the evening dew, 
I stay a little longer ; I forget 

The reason of my coming ; eyes are wet 
With salt sea brine of sadness as I view 
The wavs where I have wandered oft with you, 

In days of pleasant weather; wild regret 

Is over all ; the moon is rising, yet 
It brings the hour of, going, so adieu. 
Remember all the pleasing words I said 

In golden conference ; my way I know, 
Will be to mount where aching feet have led 

In other days ; 'tis steep and dizzy, so 
I leave my heart behind, and trust my head 

To guide through splendors of eternal snow. 



10 



^t]c Spring in tfye £ane 

LURA E. BROWN. 

CAY ! don't you remember the spring in the lane ? 
And wouldn't you like to be there again 

Just a drinkin' your fill 

As the coolin' drops spill 

From your hand that's a cup, 

In which you "scoop" up 
The water that flows from the spring in the lane ? 

Ah ! how refreshin' that spring in the lane ! 
The longin' to taste it again gives me pain. 

Do you mind the tin cup 

That we'd often fill up 

So't the water would race 

Down the sides of our face, 
That water that flowed from the spring in the lane? 

And then, oh how cleansin' that spring in the lane ! 
From our hand^ and our hearts 't seemed to wash every stain 

But we both of us think 

'Twas the best thing to drink — 

Can't you see the leaf cup 

That we couldn't fill up 
With the water that flowed from the spring in the lane? 

And how satisfyin' that spring in the lane ! 
To the thirsty as good as the fa lin' of rain 

When one's not heard its song 

For ever so long. 

And we'd always drink deep — 

We could hold such a heap 
Of the water that flowed from the spring in the lane. 

We'll never forget the spring in the lane ; 
To you and to me it's exceedingly plain, 

That, after earth's strife, 

Ev'n the water of life, 

Though in goblets of gold — 

Full as they can hold — 
Must taste 's if it came from that spring in the lane. 

11 



Summer Higfyt 



S. Q. LAPIUS. 

A \ 7"ILL0W boughs dip in the murm'ring stream, 

Tiny waves lap on the sandy shore, 
Far o'er the waters the moon's bright beams 

Silvers the ripples that gently roar. 
There in the shadow a rowboat lies — 

Nothing the night or the silence mars, 
Save in the distance a wild bird cries, 

Under the light of the burning stars. 

Off to the southward the city lights 

Flicker and dance in the flowing stream ; 
There at the base of yon rocky heights 

Fires in steamer's red furnace gleam, 
Discord is off to the land of dreams — 

Nothing the half holy silence mars, 
Save in the distance a night bird screams, 

Under the light of the burning stars. 



Dews are caressing the meadow's breast, 

Perfume of flowers pervades the air, 
Lulling the mind to a passive rest, 

Free from all worry and want and care. 
Fireflies are flitting in flaming arcs — 

Nothing the mystical silence mars 
Save in the distance a watch-dog barks, 

Under the light of the burning stars. 



12 



£ot>c £igt}t. 

WINGARD. 

A \ THAT holy feelings should inspire the soul, 

How pure should be the thoughts of him who sings 
Of love, that old, old song which, always new, 
Some heart is singing to another heart. 
Profane it not with names of earth-born lust 
And sensual desire, nor wed its high 
Significance to meanings low and base. 
Enshrined within the human breast, there is 
An inner sanctuary of the Soul's 
Best feelings, where our Life's Shekinah burns. 
To enter in that sacred place, all vain 
And foolish thoughts must first be laid aside ; 
White-robed or purified must be the heart's 
High priest and priestess who would stand before 
That Light which there sheds holy rays around. 
Happy the one who thus can enter in, 
Who hears the thrilling words, "Let there be Light!" 
Break on the darkness which has wrapped his life, 
And feels that now, henceforth, and ever more, 
His soul will walk in brightness to the end. 
Unloved, and loving no one, human life 
Is but the marble statue in whose form 
The spirit breaths not, or some massive pile 
Cut from Siberian iceberg in the north, 
Where domes, and fluted shafts, and arches grand 
Glint back the frozen rays of polar sun — 
Fair for the dazzled eye to gaze upon, 
But oh! how cold and numbing to the touch! 
Unloved, and loving no one, human life 
Is narrowed to the petty sphere of self; 
Like archer's arrow, featherless, it may 
Make upward flight, but cannot pierce the cross, 
And win the golden prize of happiness. 
True life begins when love has warmed the heart — 
A two-fold life, a mystic twain in one, 
Wherein we cannot tell which one is self — 
A life in which the me is lost in thee, 

13 



And where the rule by which we judge each word 

And deed reads, "I am not my own but thine" — 

The warm caress of lips where kisses soft 

In playful ambush wait the welcome foe ; 

The glance which, from the depth of love-lit eyes, 

Looks forth, and then retires in swift affright 

Behind the silken fringe of dainty lids ; 

The lingering pressure of the captive hand, 

And speaking clasp of fingers interlaced ; 

The smiles which chase each other "hide-and-seek," 

Like truant sun-beams, o'er the dimpled cheek, 

Then fade like evening light in blushes soft ; — 

These are indeed sweet gifts which Love bestows; 

And yet by these we cannot measure Love. 

True Love, not only strews our life with flowers, 

But teaches us to bravely meet its cares; 

And in the calm discharge of daily tasks 

Brings many a joy we wot not of. 

Together, side by side, walking life's road, 

Doing life's work, dividing joys and cares, 

Their hearts increased in charity to God 

And man, how blessed is the lot of those 

On whom the gentle light of Love doth shine! 

Heit> llcar fancies. 

GRACE HIBBARD. 

T70RGETTING the past — with its dreams 

That faded away 
Like the radiant dazzling colors of sunset 
That came not to stay. 

The fleecy white clouds — you fancied 

Were castles most fair 
With towers and turrets — with banners of sunbeams 

Afloat in the air. 

Forgetting the past — with its dreams 

Like tales that are told, 
Dream dreams brighter — aye, fairer than ever before 

In years now -grown old. 

14 



Cfyc passing of ttjc Sroorb. 

M. E. H. EVERETT. 

T IP at the stroke of midnight, 

Rose three tall forms abreast, 
Each with a star-like taper 

That lit his dark, strange vest; 
A sword they bore between them, 

Its hilt of woven gold, 
Its blade wrought in Damascus 
When steel was tried of old. 

"We bring to-night," they chanted, 
"The sword of chivalry" — 
The sword whose swift defending 

Made holy maidens free, — 
The sword whose fierce avenging 
Crowned mothers with the bliss 
Of Love's divine protection, 
And childhood's stainless kiss ! 

"We bring the sword unsullied, 

That smote when Honor bade, 
When Freedom built her altar 

And all her sons were glad ! 
The sword that ne'er was lifted 

Except by Honor's hand, 
And none whose name was blackened 

Before its edge could stand. 

"What knightly hand is lifted 

To grasp this brand to-night? 
Upon its cross-hilt blazoned 

A rune forever bright? 
We pass the countless heroes 

Who bore it once to fray, 
And challenge one to claim it 

And bear the prize away. 

15 



" Who answereth at the midnight 

Where all the dead are laid 
In holy ground, and sleeping 

Sweetly and unafraid? 
Beneath the carven granite 

Can any hand uprise, 
Or fire of life flash on us 

From any dust-veiled eyes?" 

A hush fell strange and solemn 

On meadow and on wood, 
The three forms, with their tapers, 

All silent waiting stood. 
Again their voices chanted, 

" None cometh here to-night, 
Bear off the sword forever, 

With blade so keen and bright ! " 

Glone. 

LYDIA PLATT RICHARDS. 

A LONE, an alien, on a hostile shore; 
^^ Alone, alone, forever, ever more. 
Alone, she turned eyes and tried to find 
Some kindred soul, fraternal, friendly, kind. 

Alone, the bleak crags tower, sublimely grand ; 
Alone, the rivers flow and high mounts stand ; 
Alone the planets and comets run ; 
Alone, revolve the moon and glowing sun. 

Alone! Ah, yes, alone, too soon she found 
Herself far out, above, beyond the bound 
Where the prudent venture in their timid quest; 
She walked alone — had distanced all the rest. 

Behold, her fate ! Her grim reward was this : 
To journey, lone, and friendly comrades miss. 
O solitude! The deepest, darkest known, 
Those thinkers 'find who strike out far alone. 

16 



Ctutumn ZTCusings. 

E. M. P. BRISTER. 

THE blue, autumnal haze 

Half hides the slumbrous hills ; 
The mellow, golden days 

Have come, and plenty fills 
The home and heart of man, 

While peace and quiet reign 
Beneath the blue dome's span 

O'er all the glad domain. 

The fleeting year is almost gone, 

The sands of time run slow, 
The stream of life moves sluggishly, 

Its pulse is ebbing low ; 
There is a languor in the air, 

A peace that o'erbroods all, 
A quiet restfulness most rare — 

The spirit, calm of Fall. 

And yet, it is such days as this 

That give my heart most pain 
And fill my soul with dreams of bliss 

My life can ne'er attain ; 
Such days, when to my longing eyes 

Will start unbidden tears 
For hopes that brightened Paradise, 

All perished with the years ! 



tLhc 2Tlus<>. 

ROBERT LOVEMAN. 

No sooner doth one song depart, 
In fancy's realm to soar, 

Another stands outside my heart, 
And taps upon the door. 
17 



5orty IJcars Ctao. 

BY EMIIilE CLARE ALLAXSON. 

T'M sitting alone in the twilight, 

Thinking and dreaming of yore ; 
The sweet apple-blooms on the breezes 

Float in at window and door; 
The west, like a broad sea of silver, 

Is warmed in the setting sun's glow, 
And calls to remembrance the eve-tide 

Of forty long summers ago. 

The hills clad in green round the " Hollow,'' 

Their broad arms protectingly flung, 
While the song birds, the bees and the brooklet 

A medley of melody sung. 
Confusion was sweet as we lingered 

To catch the last rosy-tinged glow, 
The hand-clasp, the promise, the parting, 

Of forty long summers ago ! 

We pictured no plans for the future — 

We lost not a moment in doubt — 
We were never betrayed into longing 

For what we were rich in without ; — 
So rich that our world seemed enchanted, 

And a charm over all was aglow, 
As we walked and we talked in the gloaming, 

Of forty long summers ago ! 

Now, adown life's dim twilight I wander 

In a far distant land, all alone, 
And I listened in vain for your footstep — 

In vain your melodious tone ; 
I long for your tender embraces, 

But no fond arm about me you throw, 
And I sigh for the old-time caresses 

Of forty long summers ago ! 
18 



I shall walk all alone to the river, 

And meet the cold rush of the wave, 
For my life's sun is low in the westward, 

And my feet feel the dews of the grave ; 
But, dearest, remember to meet me, 

If first the dark journey I go, 
And we'll wander in Eden together, 

As in forty long summers ago ! 



happenings. 

CAROLINE W. D. RICH. 

AS I carelessly walked by the sea one day, 
I passed by a boatman who quietly lay 
Upon the warm sand, with his rod by his side, 
A boat anchored near, on the rippling tide. 
Why did he lie there so idle, and wait? 
Were there no fishes to catch with his bait? 
Ah me ! 
Why did the boatman wait? 

A maiden swung lightly her hammock near by ; 
Her ringkts were golden, her eyes like the sky; 
A song like an echo of love filled the air, 
As pure as the morning, as trustful as prayer. 
Adown by the sea rocked the boat to and fro ; 
The waves were alight with the sun's afterglow. 
Ah me! 
Why sang the maiden so low ! 

At eve I returned from my walk by the cliff; 
Two lovers I saw as they entered the skiff; 
The stars were now glinting and dimpling above, 
The pines were still sighing their vespers of love ; 
The moon beams were thrusting their darts through the tree 
Where the hammock was swinging — now idle and free. 
Ah me ! 
Two lovers were gliding on over the sea. 

19 



Sort's Somv 



\7ES, the song is old as June, 

But the Muse who sings the dear old tune, 
Re-sets it each time without changing her key, 
And though you may wonder how this can be, 

You will see at once, that a flat or a sharp 
Would ruin the strings of a delicate harp, 
So her song must ever be sung, you see, 
In the same old sweet, but natural key ! 

But the cunning Muse adapts it well 
To the tender words she has to tell; 
Thus it's new to you, and new to me, 
This same old song in its natural key ! 



ZTtgtjt. 

M. J. LOCHEMES. 

TN solemn grandeur rests the night; 

The endless skies o'erspreading 
The myriad stars are coining on, 
Their wonted pathway treading. 

O peace so sweet ! O silent world ! 

All toil and sorrow ending, 
While chanting angels through the fields 

Their shining course are wending. 

Adown the sky a shooting star 
Now falls, its neighbors greeting. 

A bell is calling from afar, 

Some heart has ceased its beating. 



20 



3n tf]c Court of tfye fiirtg. 

FLOBANCE MAY ALT. 

'THE armor hung high in the tapestried hall 

Where the knights and the nobles were banqueting all; 
Their shields laid aside and their lances ensheathed, 
And the tall silver flagons with ivy enwreathed. 
The fumes of the wine-cups like incense arose, 
While the monarch who drank had forgotten his foes ; 
And the might of his laugh made the rose-garlands swing — 
There was feasting and mirth in the court of the king. 

Only one voice was still in the shout or the song, 

And one face was sad in the midst of the throng. 

Rinaldo, the jester, and Lillo, his son, 

Had frolicked together in days that were done ; — 

But Lillo was looking his last upon earth, 

Within sight of the lights, within sound of the mirth. 

What wonder the father had no songs to sing, 

Who thought of his child in the court of the king. 

i 
The banquet went on, and the torches up flared. — 
If the son of the jester were dying — who cared? 
"Ho! rouse there, Rinaldo," the king said again, 
"My minstrels are tiring, — take thou up the strain.'' — 
Then the jester advanced to the foot of the throne; 
He silenced their stories and told them his own, 
And, waiting the mercy his service might bring, — 
He silently knelt at the feet of the king. 

The monarch was frowning (Rinaldo, thy fears 

Have cause, for the world has no patience with tears) 

"What — Lillo," he answered: "This nonsense for him?" 
The eyes of the jester were raised now and dim ; 

"Why trouble my feasting with thy trifling woes? 
Come, sing, I command thee!" The jester arose 
And sang; — but his voice felt his heart's broken string, 
And seemed to drop tears in the court of the king. 

21 



The banquet went on, and the wine-cup went round 
Till foes were forgotten, and caution was drowned ; 
And a stranger pushed in and stole unawares 
Past nobles who nodded or slept in their chairs. 
With soft steps he crept to the foot of the throne — 
The minstrels, too, nodded. — Rinaldo alone 
Saw the steel in his hand, and with one sudden spring 
Had saved the king's life in the court of the king. 

Descending, the dagger was sheathed in the heart 
Of Rinaldo, the jester, who, playing the part 
Of a motley-garbed court-fool when living — lay dead, 
With the crown of a hero. The murderer fled 
Past the courtiers startled, who heard, in the dim 
Morning light, from the convent, the nun's matin hymn. 
And Rinaldo, the jester — ah! sweet, solemn thing, — 
Met with Lillo once more in the court of a king. 



22 



Ballab to a Bouquet 



AEONZO LEORA RICE. 

TN desolate regions where Circe 
Is seated, forever I stray, 

And sue at the footstool of Mercy, 
Whenever I think of the day 
At college, when, starting away, 

You left me in silence to quote 

From Keats, while you made a bouquet 

Of roses to pin on my coat. 

Cantibile, sonnet, rondeaux, I 

Have written, and one canzone, 
Exhausting all rhymes on the woes, I 

Endure while in exile I stray ; 

This ballad's the latest, I pray 
Remember I cried as I wrote 

And thought of the scented bouquet 
Of roses you pinned on my coat. 

Between the pink leaves of the poet 

We thumbed for the sober and gay, 
Turned under a picture — none know it — 

The roses are treasured away ; 

And often when twilight is gray, 
The pages are turned and I dote 

And ponder above the bouquet 
Of roses you pinned on my coat. 

i/Envoi. 

The moths and the mildew will prey, 
And shrivel all treasures ; from mote, 

Minutest, I hide the bouquet 

Of roses you pinned on my coat. 



23 



©16 tDooben dfyurcf] in tfye (5rot>e 



JOHN B. KETCHUM. 



A SONG for the old wooden church in the grove, 
And that hour of hallowed repose, 
When the Spirit comes down within the old walls, 

In the hush of the Sabbath-day's close ; 
When the sun sinks low in the far-distant west 

And the shadows of night are falling, 
As the calm of the even steals over all, 
And the bell is lovingly calling. 

In fancy I sit in the pew by the wall, 

And my spirit is pensive and grieves ; 
And I hear the low prayers that trembled and rose 

As the summer wind sang through the eaves. 
I hear the same voices that chanted in tune 

In the days of the long, long ago, 
Yet singing those hymns as the eve closes in, 

And the music comes sweetly and low. 

Though absent and distant an exile I roam, 

I will think of those hours and the time, 
And memory keep green the little, old church, 

And preserve it in story and rhyme. 
Let them bury me where the tones of the bell 

There my spirit forever will move, 
Where the voice of worshiper riseth in praise, 

From the old wooden church in the grove. 



24 



IDoman's Silence 

CY WARMAN. 

'^PAINT no use to woo a woman 

When she thinks she wants to talk 
'Cause a woman's only human 

And you'd better take a walk 
Till she simmers down and settles. 

When a woman's on her ear 
What she has to say in silenc 

Is the pleasantest to hear. 

'Taint no use to try to crowd her, 

'Cause she's bound to say her say. 
You talk loud, and she'll talk louder r 

So it's best to break away. 
When she's in the upper octave, 

Better wander from her view ; 
For the song she sings in silence 

Is the sweetest song for you. 

But you can coax her, and caress her, 

And she'll melt and run to you 
Like the 'lasses on your pancakes 

In your boyhood used to do. 
If you have a sorrow, tell her, 

Then just watch the tear-drops fall ; 
And the sighs she sighs in silence 

Are the saddest sighs of all. 

When you ask a girl to marry, 

And she hangs on what you've said, 
While your hope hangs on her answer, 

And the moon hangs overhead ; 
When you seem to see the thoughtlshe 

Thinks, and kind'er feel her fall, 
That's her answer, said in silence ; 

'Tis the sweetest word of all. 

25 



G, (Christmas danto 

W. Y. DEMAREE. 

A GAIN the centuries speed their way, 

And men's vile passions still hold sway ; 
Kingdoms, empires, nations rise, 
And spread beneath all eastern skies ; 
Huge temples build from zone to zone, 
While Ignorance bows to gods of stone. 
The gates of Janus stand ajar, 
And fiercely rage the flames of war ; 
The earth shakes 'neath vas*" armies' tread ; 
The world grows weary of her dead, 
For millions of the sons of men 
Shall ne'er know love or hate again. 
Down thro' the future long and dark 
War's echoing sounds grow faint — when, hark ! 
As gently as morn drives back the night, 
A voice says, '' Peace" — The Lord of Night! 
"Peace!'' Hallelujahs glad hearts yield, 
While armies march from off the field. 
Thus nations turn from war at last, 
And Rome the reins of rule holds fast : 
Augustus mounts the imperial throne, 
And all the world at peace is known. 
That glorious day, by prophets old 
In Hebrew Scriptures oft foretold, 
Was coining, when those sages wise 
A star should see in eastern sikes — 
A star that spoke " good will to men " — 
That wondrous " Star of Bethlehem." 
A heavenly choir comes from on high 
And touches with celestial fire 
The hearts of shepherds in the fields, 
To them the wondrous news reveals. 

26 



What news reveals? 

That in a mansion diamond-decked 

And royal chamber richly flecked 

With jewels rare, and tapestry, 

Bright gems from out each pearly sea ; 

On couch as soft as filmy down, 

With broidered curtains hanging round, 

Was born a king of earthly mould 

Whose power was found in sordid gold? 

No ! This was not the wondrous sight 

That God and angels on that night 

Forsook the courts of heaven and flew 

Down thro' those starry worlds to view. 

But shouting, shining, glorious throng ! 

By blazing worlds and suns they come 

To Bethlehem's manger — humble sight! 

Where lay the world's new king that night — 

A king whose sway of peace and love 

To all the world, in time, should prove 

A power to keep the apostate race 

From Death's foul chamber, hell's disgrace. 

O grand event ! O glorious King ! 

In manger born while angels sing ! 

Couldst Thou have come with courtly gild ; 

Couldst Thou have had. huge coffers filled; 

Couldst thou have sat on regal throne, 

And waved a scepter widely known ; 

Couldst Thou have wrapped in kingly gown, 

And worn on brow a golden crown, 

Then Abraham's stock and David's seed 

Would glad have owned Thee king indeed ! 

But Thou didst choose that humble way, 

And brought to each a brighter day ; 

By Love's strong power, ne'er used in vain, 

Thou drawest the world to God again. 

27 



PAULINE CARRINGTON RUST. 

/^H ! pale, dead lips, unlock and tell your story — 
We would the depths of all this mys'ery know. 
White hands, unclasp, and point through realms of glory 
The onward way these cold, still feet did go. 

Was it through trackless paths of star-lit beauty, 

Where sweetest flowers their softest fragrance throw? 

Was it where tempests rage in sullen duty 
Amidst the regions of the silent snow? 

And did you brave the journey all alone? 

Or were you guided by an angel hand 
That led you from the wailing of Life's moan 

Through Death's dark tide unto the After Land? 

Alas! this torturing agony of doubt! 

The anguish of thine absence I could bear, 
If I but knew the life that seems gqne out 

Was burning on and shining still, somewhere. 

Yet no response — only this cruel stillness. 

Dead lips keep secrets well — ay, surely well ; 
Repose is written in thy face's chillness, 

And that is all the story I may spell. 

Then learn, my heart, to bear this bitter aching; 

When night is past, then evil dreams all go ; 
And when along the East the dawn is breaking, 

I shall awake and all this mystery know. 



28 



XDctitmg 

SIDNEY E. POWELL. 

\\J"HY do I wait? In all the realm 

Of Nature there is no waiting. 
The dews of Heaven, the beams of light 
And warmth, the bird that flies on tired wing 
And brings its food from far, all 
Wait not, but press to do the will 
Of Him who sends them on their way. 
Were all His instruments to wait 
And drowsily and idly sit and let 
The speeding time fly by, what dire things, 
What chaos, would this woeful world upset? 
But every part of all His great machine 
Works ceaselessly, and well fulfills 
The vast appointments of His will ; 
All nature, from the glorious sun 
E'en to the tiniest drop of dew 
That falls on some obscure and hidden flower. 
And yet that form of Nature 

Which, mixed with higher things, is known as man, 
Would idly wait; and arrogating to himself 
The right no creature has, 
Would squander time, not spend it 
For his Maker's will ; would sleep and dream 
And, waking for a moment, see 
With wonder, and perchance remorse, 
That all his life is spent and lost. 

Why do I wait? Have I assurance meet 

Of time enough to work my mission out? 

What is it rises like a wall 'twixt me 

And all I fain would do? 

Is it the barrier of His will that holds me back, 

Or can it be the sluggard's craven heart 

Within my breast that bids me wait 

Some easier way, some fitter time, 

To do the work my better nature craves to do? 

Oh ! Thou who didst this complex nature strange 

29 



In Thy great wisdom frame, teach me 

To know Thy will, and knowing it 

Oh ! give the God-like pow'r to break the chain 

That hold s me back from doing it. 



poesy 

MRS. M. WINTERMUTE. 

T^HE touch — the voice,. naught but the soul can hear 
The thrill, the bliss, that tells me heaven is near — 
Is poesy ; where God's thoughts, let to flow, 
Awaken songs not of this world below. 

Upon the border land I long did wait, 
With sight and sound my spirit all elate, 
Around me rained the sunshine and away 
Swept vistas and eternal heights of day. 

And spirits came to blend their love with mine. 
I felt no touch, saw no material sign ; 
But kisses such as earth has never known 
From heavenly hearts into my heart were sown ; 
And in the perfect bliss — the flood of day — 
Their call to me was, " Come, oh come away! " 
A little nearer and a shadow stole 
Between its source and my uplifted soul, 
And there was groping for the fire divine 
To quicken hope, and finest sense rejoice ; 
Reaching for vital faith which God can feel 
The garment hem that still hath power to heal. 

Still nearer — all the wondrous heights are starred 
Forever higher, yet forever barred, 
By cherubim that stand with sword aflame 
Revealing naught but by one passzvord name 
That dropped from heaven, the very heart of God, 
Unto the world His pierced feet have trod. 

For vision such as faith alone hath eye — 
For nearing bliss still undefied I sigh, 
For light and love still unattained I yearn, 
And all my being toward His face I turn. 

30 



QLfyc falling of tfyc Snow 

HENRY ED. NOTHOMB. 

AS I stand by my chamber window 
And gaze far over the lea, 
The brush of an unseen painter 
Is changing the world for me ; 
Arched low are the curtained heavens, 

Around is the falling snow 
Which floats with a quiet grandeur 
To the dull, dark earth below. 

I can catch a glimpse of the sunlight 

Which breaks through the leaden cloud, 
And dances in radiant gladness 

With the silent, elfin crowd, 
While the forest trees enveloped 

Like unyielding guardsmen, stand 
And watch the great transformation 

That will beautify the land. 

Full oft have I watched the snowflakes — 

That vast and unsullied throng 
That heralds the coming of Winter, 

And sports that he brings along ; 
And each time has my heart re-echoed 

The song that was sung without, 
And chorded, in joyful measure, 

With the youthful laugh and shout. 

For it ^eems, with the falling snowflakes, 

Past hours have come back to me, 
And my heart is filled with the music 

And spirit of childish glee, 
As, devoid of the world's dark malice, 

Devoid of its homage given, 
I walk in the path of childhood — 

The way that is near to Heaven. 



31 



And it seems that life's disappointments 

Must surely have been deferred, 
For Hope, on its airy pinions, 

Soars high as a mountain bird, 
And all of life's care and worry, 

And all of its needless woe, 
Have fled from the heart's warm precincts 

With the falling of the snow. 



Homeo anb ~Sulict 

R. LOVEMAN. 

/^H, Moon, didst thou see, that night, sweet night, 
^^^ 'Neath thy mellow beams, and the stars aglow, 
Juliet, with eyes of love and light, 

Close in the arms of Romeo ? 
And Moon, hast thou seen to-night, sad night, 

How Verona ran with bated breath, 
And wept at the piteous, cruel sight 

Of the ill-starred pair in the arms of death ? 



r?opc; 



KUTH WARD KAHN. 

/^\UR hopes in youth are like those roseate shadows, 
^^^ Cast by the sunlight on the dewy grass 
When first the fair morn opes her purple eyes ; 
They seem gigantic and yet graceful shades 
Touched with bright color. As our sun of life 
Rises toward meridian, less and less 
Grow the bright, tremulous shadows, till at last 
In the hot dust and noontide of our day 
They all are lost. 



82 



€f}<> (5rar>e of Cbeo. Koerner, at IDoebbelm. 



P. ILGEN. 



/^UT of the reign of shadows and death, 
At Woebb'lin an oak tree is growing ; 
Sadly it bows its dark, branchy head 
Over a grave — on which thousands have shed 
Tears — for a hero th'were flowing. 

Silence all over — I listen in prayer 

The song of the night wind so sweetly 

The oak leaves are trembling in the twilight air, 

They tremble and grieve for the poet — so fair. 

In death as in life — they greet thee ; 

Who is the poet that found here rest 

When the strings of his harp were tearing ? 

It is Koerner, the poet, so heavenly blessed, 

It is Koener, the hero, with his blood-stained breast, 

For " Freedom or death " he was swearing. 

Far from his loved ones he fell in the fight, 
With him his sword and his lyre, 
Offering on the altar for Freedom and Right, 
Kissed from the gold of the east rising light 
His death song — the battle fire. 

O! be remembered in word and song, 
Be written on history's pages, 
Thou Koerner — in deed so great, so strong, 
Thou poet — so sweet and fair in song 
Be praised through all the ages. 



33 



£fK Wxlb See 

A F. O'BEIRNE. 

[ COME at morn, when dewdrops bright 

Are twinkling on the grasses, 
And woo the balmy breeze — in flight 
That o'er the heather passes. 

I swarm with many blithesome wings 

That join me in my ramble, 
When seeking for the honied things 

Of heath and hawthorn bramble ; 

And languidly amidst the sedge 
When noontide is most stilly, 

I loll beside the water's edge, 
And climb into the lily. 

I fly throughout the clover crops 

Before the evening closes, 
Or swoon amid the amber drops 

That swell the pink moss roses. 

At times I take a longer route, 

In cooling Autumn weather, 
And gently murmur 'round about 

The purple-tinted heather. 

To poesy I am a friend, 

I go with fancy linking, 
And all my airy knowledge lend 

To aid the poet's thinking. 

Deem not these little eyes are dim 

To every sense of duty, 
We owe a certain debt to Him 

Who clad this earth in beauty. 
34 



And therefore I am never sad, 
A burden homeward bringing, 

But help to make the summer glad 
In my own way of singing. 

When idlers seek my honied wine, 
In wantonness to drink it, 

I sparkle from the columbine 
Like some forbidden trinket. 

Oh ! heartless man, if all your tact 
And power to me were given, 

I would not wound by word or act 
The things beloved of Heaven. 

That so I should not fear the close — 
The final rest before me — 

But lay me down beneath some rose, 
Its dewdrops weeping o'er me. 



Cite Winb 

E. LOVEMAN. 

The wind came up from the balmy south, 
Came merrily dancing everywhere, 

He kissed my lady's rosebud mouth, 

And slept in the coils of her shining hair. 

Then waked and away to the open sea, 
Swifter than hungry hawk or fox, 

And angrily dashed with demoniac glee, 
A giant ship against the rocks. 



35 



(£f]tfo of tfye Sea 

chari.es w. hills. 

TV TOT from Nirvana of ecstatic ease, 

Nor Eden of repose, 
But faint from conflict, lord of conquered peace, 
Aspiring man arose. 

All life is one, so runs the newer thought; 

I was through times foregone, 
When love and hate were dumb and sex was not 

/Eons ago, by tokens known, 

I slept inert, prone on the primal strand; 

A wave whose touch was bliss, 
Moon-drawn, crept up along the singing sand 

And woke me with a kiss 

To larger life. Still, as that wave returns 

When wan moons wax apace, 
A buried memory wakes and sobs and yearns 

In mothers of my race. 

Still, passing tremors dash the deep sea calm 

That broods upon the bride — 
Like Hebrew maiden, fair as Orient palm, 

Like Leah, tender-eyed. 

The gray mist falls, the vexing cyclone breaks 

In vague unrest on me; 
In cloudy mood and halting stanza speaks 

The travail of the sea. 

An urban slave, faring through ways remote, 

I see the sea-blown woods 
Etched on the clouds, and hear the thunderous rote 

Of ever-moving floods. 

I dream of sunken cliffs and sunless dells — 

A wrinkled pall of waves 
Round all, where artists of the tiny shells 

Pile marble over graves. 



Keep thou the tryst, O Sea, with child of thine, 

And once again repeat 
The tale of cycles gone I for, Mother-mine, 
Thy cradle song was sweet. 



Ctt tfye (Drgcm 

CHESTER WOOD. 

TN summer when through the windows 

The moonlight dreamily falls, 
Or when red gleams from the fireplace 
Flit over the floor and walls, 

Then in the shadowy silence 

I finger the unseen keys, 
And bring from the glorious organ 

For myself strange melodies. 

And 'tis then I seem in spirit 

To be borne away afar, 
'Till I reach the enchanted regions 

Where the realms of Dreamland are. 

For then of the grand and noble 
I dream, and the good and fair, 

And friends the beloved and absent, 
I seem to behold them there. 

And thrilled by each mystic influence 

The quiet gladness expands, 
Filling all of my being 

Even as then by my hands 

The organ is touched, and music 
Floats in the air of the room, 

Filling the moonlight and firelight, 
And filling the shade and gloom. 



37 



(X IDitfyercb ^ 0tt)cr 



E. S. HULiIX. 



T TOW oft we do this caption see, 

Above the sonnet of some youth; 
To praise some flower of shrub or tree — 
Its life and death the only truth. 

But in my walks of yesterday, 

I saw a flower t seemed struck with death ; 
The petals and the leaves all lay — 

Beyond all signs of vital breath. 

That flower was reared by love and care 
Of parents, sisters, brothers— all ; 

But now the tears that all can spare 
Cannot new life again recall. 

No care or dress, of root or spray, 
Of friends of that once lovely flower 

Can send to root or stem one ray 
Of health or life's renewing power. 

A fiend in manly form and shape, 
With winning ways, and wily power, 

Did often seek, for "friendships sake," 
To sit beneath that lovely flower. 

But when that fiend had taken leave, 
The signs of health all shrank away ; 

Nor filial care of those who grieve, 

That shrinking, pining blight could stay. 



38 



IDoman's Sympathy 

DANIEL GAMBLE. 

*T^O thee my best and dearest friend, 

Ten thousand thanks I humbly send- 
Most grateful and sincere, 

For the kind token sent to me 

Of all thy generous sympathy 
In time of shadows drear. 

To him who roams the pathless deep 
When darkness reigns and tempests sweep, 

How dear the rising day ! 
Yet dearer to the manly soul 
When life's rude billows darkly roll 

Is Woman's sympathy. 

Hail, Woman's sympathy ! more dear 
Than fragrance of the youthful year 

Borne on the breath of Spring, 
Or music wafted o'er the foam 
To welcome watching seamen home 

When loves and daughters sing. 

What ! though my lot seem trebly hard, 
And all save thee may disregard 

As on through life I haste, 
Thy sympathy must ever be 
A spring of purest bliss to me — 

An Elim in the Waste. 

Then, though misfortune still may shower 
Her shafts with all her direst power 

I shall not once despair; 
This bosom still shall bear a heart 
Impervious to every dart 

While dwells thy memory there. 

Nay, wert thou by my lowly cot, 
Thrice doubly blest would be my lot, 
Though fraught with many an ill ; 
39 



Thy presence here at such an hour 
Might greater prove in healing power 
Than all of mortal skill. 

With thee to hasten on their way 
The lingering pinions of the day 

And " nurse me back to health." 
I would not drt-ad misfortune's frown 
Nor envy heroes their renown 

Nor millionaires their wealth. 

I fondly dream, if thou wert near, 
Departed health would reappear 

And tinge these cheeks again ; 
The radiance of thy blissful eyes 
Would gild the midnight of my skies 

And mitigate each pain. 

Then fell Disease might lift her cloud 
As Night withdraws her sable shroud 

Beiore the King of day 
When from his eastern court he goes 
And wide o'er earth and ocean throws 

His glorious morning ray. 

Accept this tribute from a heart 
Whose dearest wish shall be thy part 

Till earth's last pang be o'er, 
And this immortal spirit rise 
To seize its mansion in the skies, 

Where pain shall sting no more. 



40 



Co tfje South Winb 



ESTHER CONRAD. 



^ I WHENCE those rich strains of music from the dell, 

So gently stealing o'er the woodlands mute, 
Sometimes like the seolian's rapturous swell, 
Then like the cadence of some fairy lute, 
Or deepening to a low and mournful tone, 
Like Memnon mourning for Aurora gone ? 



'Tis the low wailing of the southern wind 
Singing Boreas' requiem wild and sweet, 

Like yearnings of a heart to grief inclined 

Which longs some sympathizing breast to meet, 

Thou bringest tidings of those sunny climes, 

Where wave the orange groves, the fragrant limes. 

W T hy comes a voice so sad from those fair isles, 
Where flourish flowers of beauty passing rare, 

Where the bright, glorious sun perpetual smiles, 
And birds of brilliant plumage wing the air, 

And dark-eyed maids beneath palmetto trees 

Entrance the air with witching melodies? 

They say your sun is warmer far than ours, 

Your stars are brighter and your skies nice blue ; 

No chilling, blasting tempest round you lowers, 
No dark'ning clouds obscure their azure hue, 

And those who sing we deem of happy heart, 

Who know no grief nor feel afflictions smart. 

What tales of sorrow, then, hast thou to tell? 

Why comest thou weeping to our distant shore ? 
Though thy soft tears, like mercy's gentle spell, 

Revive our drooping landscape evermore. 
Are there no kindred souls, sweet Zephyr, say, 
That thou dost mourn in lands so far away ? 

41 



Is it the cry of those bygone years ? 

From Peru's hills or Montezuma's halls, 
Whose story like some magic dream appears, 

Whose blood aloud to heaven for vengeance calls, 
Leaving on Spain a blot of infamy 
Blacker than aught on page of history? 

Sigh on, sweet wind, and tell thy mournful tale 
Loud to the rocks, and hills, and forest wide; 

But whisper softly through the mountain vale, 
Where the wind flowers and the arbutus hide. 

Thour't ever welcome to this land and me 

'Tis nature's music, nature's harmony. 



Wakv 

FRANCES S. SALTUS. 

T HEAR strange voices in the warm, swift rain, 
That falls in tumult upon town and field ; 
It seems to tell a mistery unconcealed, 
Yet hieroglyphic to a mortal's brain. 

It sighs and moans as if in utter pain 

Of some colossal sorrow never healed ; 

It warns of awful secrets unrevealed, 
And every drop repeats the sad refrain. 

And then I think of the enormous sea 

Fed by these drops, with drifting wrecks bestrewn ; 

And dimly, vaguely, like a far off sound, 
The meaning of their sorrow comes to me, 

For they may be, oh, rare, considerate boon, 

Heaven's humble mourners for the unnumbered drowned. 



42 



tEfye ©16 2?tt>er 23ri6ge 



W. V. LAWRENCE. 

'THE old river bridge, with its roof gray and hoary, 

Which spanned in high arches Scioto's broad stream, 
Is dear to onr hearts in its legend and story, 

Of days which grow dim as the mists of a dream. 

By the moonlight I stand in the bed of the river, 

While clouds, like black coursers speed noiselessly by, 

As beneath, on the waters in dark shadows quiver 
The skeleton bridge dimly hung in the sky. 

Dismantled, a ghost of the past, and now fleeting, 
A sword of hot flame hews away the firm wood ; 

Its death groans grow loud as the swift blades are eating 
Through strong oaken vitals old Time hath withstood. 

As I stand with the night and the shadows above it, 
Weird forms and strange fancies seem gathering there ; 

And I hear the hushed whispers of spirits that love it, 
In sighs of regret which load the still air. 

How many, I ask, are the feet which cross'd over 
Its broad, throbbing bosom no more to return ! 

Of statesman and sage, the fair maiden and lover, 
In dust they now sleep in the lone funeral urn. 

How bravely with Time it has fought the long battle, 
Triumphantly driving all foes from the field ! 

The storm's charging squadrons, the thunder's fierce rattle, 
Nor flood's rushing torrents compelled it to yield. 

So faithful to friends and defiant to weather ! 

Our burdens were borne on its breast broad and oaken; 
Of the millions who journeyed across it together, 

To none was the pledge of safe transit once broken ! 

Ah ! where are the hands that set girder and rafter, 
And swung those long arches across the deep wave? 

I hear in the echo of Time's mocking laughter, 
The hollow responses came up from the grave ! 

43 



Not one it has sheltered in storm and in danger, 
Not one it has nursed on its broad oaken knee, 

Not one, be he born at its feet, or a stranger, 

For this friend found in need offers protest or plea! 

They have fled from its fall like the flood of the waters, 
Which kiss those cold feet and speed heedlessly on ! 

They are lost in the march of the sons and the daughters, 
Who, over the bridge now forgotten, have gone. 

Of the friends of the past not a friend longer lingers, 
Who once would in pity give heed to its cries ; 

Across each cold bosom are clasped the still fingers 
That hailed it in triumph with shouts to the skies ! 

My hot heart cries out in the strength of its sorrow 
Against the decrees of vain man's puny power ; 

His is of to-day ! God's alone, is to-morrow ! 

He holdeth the breath in our nostrils each hour. 

Ah ! see those wild arms reaching up as in prayer, 
As deeper and hotter sinks death's fiercest pain ! 

The wind's softest kiss fires anew the red slayer 
And prayer now for help and for mercy is vain ! 

Farewell, my old friend ! The rude hand of the vandal 
Is laid on your timbers now hoary with years; 

You, too, are the victim of envy and scandal, 

Which scoff at the past which our memory reveres. 

Farewell, dear old Bridge ! not a friend of the many 

You carried in safety across the wild flood, 
Had a word in your favor, and few now, if any 

Remember how bravely the storms you withstood ! 

Farewell, dear old Bridge ! fare-you-well and forever ! 

The fire's burning fever runs hot through your frame, 
As the shafts of the slayer your life tendons sever, 

And you rush to destruction through ruin and flame ! 

Ah ! hear those shrill groans through the still -night now 



ringing 



A shriek of fierce pain from that heart strong and brave ; 
As upward in terror its spectural arms flinging, 
The Old River Bridge plunges into the wave. 



44 



"Befyolbtng as in a mirror. 1 



IDA W. HARRISON. 



HPHIS rugged rock whose front is rent 

With many unsightly veins, 
Hath caught some drops in pity sent 

By summer's gentle rains. 
And in each placid pool there lies 

A mirrored picture true 
Of silvery clouds that sail the skies, 

And bit of heaven's own blue. 

Didst thou complain thy face was plain, 

Didst mourn thy lowly part? 
O let God's love and mercy rain 

Into thy opened heart! 
Reflect thy Master's face divine, 

Humbly, adoringly; 
His glory over thee shall shine, 

Transfigured thou shalt be. 



do €ulu. 

WESLEY COUCHMAN. 

T UCRETIA set her pitcher by the mirror — 

A limpid spring — and leaned her lithe form o'er, 
Settling her dimpled foot hard by the shore 
Coyly, as fear forbade the waters nearer. 
When now the shimmering depths were somewhat clearer, 
" Dewdrops," said she, "O tell me — tell once more: 
Shall I to him be lovely as of yore?" 
For all her words the waves could scarcely hear her, 
Yet guessed they all, and murmured tremulously: 

"Young color fades from flowers, but not from thee, 
O fair Lucrece, and both thy rounded lips 
Are sweeter than the dews the lily drips, 

O sweet Lucrece, in dells where sighs surcease, 
And fairies laugh with eyes of thee, Lucrece." 

45 



ZTturber. 

GILBERT L,. EBERHART. 

'THE hearts of the roses have shrunk from the dew; 

The moon has gone down in afright, 
And the terrified stars dare scarcely peep through 
The storm-tattered clouds of the night. 

The gaunt wolf listens with bated breath, 

As in fear of some hidden snare ; 
And it seems as the bloody wings of Death 

Were beating the sweltering air. 

There's a gleam of a knife, and a wail of pain, 

And a sound of struggling feet ; 
And a form, with hands of gory stain, 

Like a phantom, flies down the street. 

From the gloomy aisles of the shivering wood, 
Cries a strangling voice on the wind : — 
"Near the side of the road, a pool of warm blood, 
And a mangled corse thou wilt find." 



ITtan. 

'THE vilest creature space doth span, 
Is weak, despised, dishonored man ; 
The crown of all creation's plan, 
Noble and lofty, God-like man. 



40 



2>er (Dak un6 ber Pine, 

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. 

T DON'D vas preaching voman's righdts, 

Or anyding like dot, 
Und I likes to see all beoples 

Shust gondented mit dheir lot; 
Budt I vants to gondradict dot shap 
Dot made dis leedle shoke; 
"A voman was der glinging vine, 
Und man, der shturdy oak." 

Berhaps, somedimes, dot may be dnie ; 

Budt, den dimes oudt off nine, 
I find me oudt dot man himself 

Vas peen der glinging vine; 
Und ven hees friendts dhey all vas gone, 

Und he vas shust "tead proke,'' 
Dot's vhen der voman shteps righdt in, 

Und peen der shturdy oak. 

Shust go oup to der paseball groundts, 

Und see dhose "shturdy oaks" 
All planted roundt ubon der seats — 

Shust hear dheir laughs und shokes! 
Dhen see dhose vomens at der tubs, 

Mit glothes oudt on der lines: 
Vhich vas der shturdy oaks, mine frendts, 

Und vhich der glinging vines? 

Ven sickness in der householdt comes, 

Und veeks und veeks he shtays, 
Who vas id fighdts him mitoudt resdt, 

Dhose veary nights und days? 
Who beace und gomfort alvays prings, 

Und cools dot fefered prow? 
More like id vas der tender vine 

Dot oak he glings to, now. 
47 



"Man vants budt leedle here pelow," 

Der boet von time said ; 
Dhere's leedle dot man he doiCd vant, 

I dink id means, inshted; 
Und vhen der years keep rolling on 

Dheir cares und droubles pringing, 
He vants to pe der shturdy oak, 

Und, also, do der glinging. 

Maype, vhen oaks dhey gling some more, 

Und don't so shturdy peen, 
Der glinging vines dhey haf some shance 

To help run Life's masheen. 
In belt und sickness, shoy und pain, 

In calm or shtormy veddher, 
'Tvas beddher dot dhose oaks and vines 

Should alvavs gling togeddher. 



hyssop. 

HPHE Lord had loosed a nation's chain; 
Had bid the paschal lamb be slain; 
With wing of death o'ershadowed all, 
And doomed that Egypt's first-born fall. 
To warn the angel passing o'er, 
The saving blood, on Israel's door, 
Was sprinkled by each ransomed thrall 
With hyssop, springing from the wall. 

The Lamb of God, on Calvary slain, 
To free the world from Satan's chain, 
When on the cross about to die, 
In agony was heard to cry, 

"I thirst!'' Again was hyssop sought, 
And from its spray the Savior caught 
The cooling draught. ''My work," he cried, 

"Is done!" — Then bowed His head and died. 

48 



(£oming £?ome. 



N. H. ALBAUGH. 

TTANG up the lamp, dear wife, for me- 

A beacon light ; 
For I am coming home to thee, 
To thee, to-night. 

Out from the cold world's din and strife, 

With care oppress'd ; 
Home to a true and loving wife, 

For peace and rest. 

Three pairs of roguish eyes, so bright, 

Were wont to peer 
Into the gath'ring, dark'ning night, 

For father dear. 

Three pairs of toddling, pattering feet 

Would hurrying come 
To ope the door, and papa greet, 

To hearth and home. 

One pair of feet lie still and cold, 

Beneath the sod ; 
One pair of eyes on earth have closed, 

To ope with God. 

Heavy the load of this world's care, 

How often made ; 
Heavy the load — and hard to bear 

Without His aid. 

The whitening hair, the furrowed brow, 

May tell of tears; 
Our hearts are young — our love, I trow, 

Will grow, with years. 
49 



Through sunshine fair, and shadows dark, 

We'll grope our way, 
Keeping in view the shining mark 

Of perfect day. 

When life is pass'd, and we, at last, 

Reach that lone shore, 
With longing eyes, and yearning hearts — 

Our toils all o'er, 

May we see afar, like glitt'ring star, 

Through mist and gloom, 
The soul, in joy, of our bless'd boy. 

To guide as home. 

QIf?c ©16 Dream. 



CHARLES W. HILLS. 



G 



IVE place, for the hero comes at last 
To strangle the reptile . fears, 
And bind the furies of greed and hate 
For the term of a thousand years ! 



There are tears on upturned faces, 

And the pallor of things that die, 

But ever a red light kisses them 
Falling out of the eastern sky. 

Begirt with Olympian splendors, 

Where stars are as drops of dew, 

There the high gods work to a pattern 
For the making of all things new . 

And man shall rule an elysium, 

With never a jungle or lair 
For the tiger-passions to crouch in 

And spring on him unaware. 

Another shall cheer at the finish: 

I pass, and the tale is told ; 
But give me to die with a light in the eye 

Of a dream of the Age of Gold. 

50 



€f?e UTonk's Piston. 

MABEL CEONISE JONES. 

CCOURGED and bleeding in his cloister, 
Prayed a weary monk alone : 
" Blessed father, may this penance, 
For my grievous fault atone ! 

"Weak the flesh is, mighty Father, 
Yea! my strength is very small, 
Turn not from me, Oh, I pray Thee, 
Turn not from me lest I fall. 

"As the golden sun was sinking 
From last eve's emblazoned sky, 
And the faint beams glancing upward, 
Like a halo seemed to lie 

" On the mountain's farthest ridges 
Paused I in the valley then, 
Paused to see Thy Revelation 
Writ there for the sons of men. 

"And that hour's supremest beauty 
Seemed to me with comfort fraught, 
Soothed and lightened every trouble, 
Banished all perplexing thought ! 

" So I lingered in the valley 
Where Thy presence seemed so near, 
I could almost touch Thy garment, 
And Thy very footsteps hear. 

"Like a sweetest benediction 
Come the notes of Nature's voice, 
Saying to earth's weary children, 

' God thy Father, saith Rejoice ! ' 

51 



u Ev'ry burden seemed to vanish, 
Ev'ry discord seemed to cease. ; 
Gently through the solemn stillness, 
Came the proclamation ' Peace ! ' 

" Long I lingered ! Oh forgive me ! 
And the vesper bell afar, 
Peeled its silv'ry notes unheeded, 
Duty's voice had lost its power. 

" Heard I not the solemn service ; 
Heard I not the sacred call, 
Lost in selfish meditation, 
Till the darkness, like a pall, 

" Settling o'er the quiet valley, 
Roused me from the blessed dream, 
And I saw the cloud-flecked heavens, 
With the stars begin to gleam. 

" Startled, sad and heavy-hearted, 
Sought I then my cloister's gloom ; 
All night long in dreary penance, 
Knelt I in this lonely room. 

" Lord, I did forget Thy service 
And the solemn vesper prayer, 
Yet withhold not Thy forgiveness, 
Still bestow Thy tender care ! 

"I have sinned and been unfaithful; 
Many a scourge this breast shall bear ; 
Let my blood procure my pardon ; 
Let my groans my fault repair." 



Kneeling there, alone and weary, 
Saw the monk a sudden light, 
And a gracious tender Presence, 
Radiant, pure, serene and bright. 



And a gentle voice spake lowly ; 
"Oh, my brother, cease to weep! 
Am I only in the cloister? 
Am I not on hill and deep? 

''Am I not in densest forests, 
And amid the burning sands? 
Am I not in ocean's turmoil, 
And the world's remotest lands? 

"Where thou seekest — there thou findst Me! 
Where thou callest — there am I! 
Though I watch the soul's great conflicts, 
Yet I hear the lightest sig-h. 

' I was with thee in the valley ! 
I am present in thy cell, 
Hear I, only, when thou prayest 
At the call of vesper bell ? 

"Rivers, woods and sunset glory, 
Symbolize thy Father's love ! 
Learn the lesson they would teach thee 
Of a guardian care above ! 

" Not from vaulted, grand cathedrals 
Doth arise sincerest praise, 
But it comes from God's first temples — 
Holy groves of early days. 

"Ev'ry thrill of adoration, 
Ev'ry throb with worship fraught, 
Hears your Father in His mansions, 
Hears, He, too, your lightest thought. 

"Asks He not mere formal worship, 
Paid at call of vesper chimes ; 
Asks He not an empty service 
Rendered Him at stated times. 
53 



" Truest homage didst thou offer 
When ye lingered in the vale ; 
Let that mountain be thy temple, 
Let thy cloister be that dale. 

" Seek not pardon by self-wounding ; 
I have borne thy ev'ry sin ; 
Didst thou yield thy life in penance, 
It would not thy pardon win. 

"I'm thy Brother; God's thy Father; 
On His love thou mayst rely ! 
Let His infinite compassion 
Draw thee upward to the sky. 

" Nature is God's revelation 
Speaking to the inner ear ; 
Sun and moon declare His glory. 
And thou, too, the psalm mayst hear! 

" Love the things that He hath given, 
Nothing hath He made in vain ; 
Flowers and birds chant forth His praises; 
Look not on them with disdain. 

•' Priest and church are not His temple ; 
Dwells He in the human heart; 
Shares thy ev'ry care and sorrow ; 
Is, of life itself, a part! 

"Serve Him as the spirit moveth ; 
Matters not or where or when ; 
He will come in consolation ; 
He will breathe a blessing then. 

" Worship Him upon the hillside, 
And His Presence, like the dew, 
Will descend in blessings on you, 
Will refresh your spirit, too ! 

" Serve thy God without heart-failing, 
Perfect love will cast out fear ! 
When the heavens are bright with glory, 
Love Omnipotent is near ! " 
54 



2II]c (Dt>erturc. 

Charles H. A. Esjling. 

I. 

Summer smiles o'er all the land, 

Sap leaps in briers, 
Earth feels her benediction bland, 

Spring's vestal fires 
Glow brighter 'neath her breathings fanned, 
Our spirits with her blooms expand, 
And join in Nature's psen grand, 

With unseen choirs. 

I A. 

For music's soul on aerial wings 

Hath upward soared, 
Vibrating subtle welcomings 

From chord to chord, 
And time with sweet suspicions rings 

01 all the joys dear Summer brings, 
Rich prophesies of harvestings 

In blossoms scored. 

II. 

Each enfreed rill with tinkling rune, 

The strain begins, 
The woods, like leaf-crowned nymphs, attune 

Their violins, 
And Zephyr with his soft bassoon, 
Awaketh all the birds of noon, 
To swell the orchestra of June 

With flute-like dins. 

III. 

His tambour sounds the Bob-o-link, 

From screening hedge, 
The insect trumpets swell and shrink 

On grassy ledge, 
55 



And sheeny cymbals clash and clink, 
Where by the streamlet's mossy brink 
Like elves, the cowslips nod and wink, 
'Mid reeds of sedge. 

IV. 

From caves wherein his mermaids dwell, 

Old Ocean's keys 
Are pressed in sympathetic spell. 

Through sunlit seas 
Each Triton blows a pearly shell, 
Each Nereid sounds a surf-swung bell, 
With rich exuberance to swell 

Life's symphonies. 

V. 

And all along each golden bar, 

In notes of light, 
Our souls read on from star to star 

The song of Night, 
Like serenade from sweet guitar 
Poured down by spirit hands afar, 
From where the founts of music are, 

With heavenly might. 

VI. 

But sweeter far than aught of these * 

The spirit's calm, 
The inbreathed secret sympathies 

That like a psalm 
Wake in the heart rich melodies, 
Soft soothing labor's care with ease, 
As thrill his soul pure ecstasies 

Who wins the palm. 

VII. 

Now May withdraws Spring's filmy veil 

Of tawny green, 
And lo ! 'round wood, stream, hill and dale, 

Bursts glory's scene, 
56 



Plays up the Easter Fairy tale 
That doth our jaded souls regale, 
While Flora's incense urns exhale. 

VIII. 

The princess beauty slowly wakes 

From slumber's thrall, 
The sunshine frees from dusky flakes, 

Enchantment's hall, 
Now horse, now hound sleep's leashes breaks, 
The jessed hawk her plumage shakes, 
Young Love aroused, old ways betakes, 

Gay lord of all. 

IX. 

While summer thus tends on our state, 

Fair muse of song ; 
Shall we, thy poets, silent wait 

With harps unstrung? 
No, no, beside thy rose-crowned gate, 
The floral dial marks the date 
When thought must bloom with speech elate, 

Life's chords along. 

Sing ©ut, ZTfy Soul 

RUTH WARD KAHN. 

CING out, oh soul of mine, nor stay 

Responding that no wealth be found 
In thee. The majesty of sound 
To weaker instruments alway 
Hath been denied. Yet, if thou play 
Thy humble note midst chords profound, 
And it ring clear, it shall be found 
And carried on a regal way. 
Low are the clear bird-notes at dawn, 
Sweet heralds of the long bright hours, 
And smallest flowers, dew-gemed, are born 
Among the feet of stately flowers. 
Life needs small helps to reach the goal, 
Then sing out, clear and true, my soul! 

57 
E 



"3 Dibnt Ojink" 

CLARA ADELE NEIDIG. . 

r^EAR little three year-old, nodding away 
Before the firelight softly glowing ; 
With cheeks aflame, and fair locks flowing; 
"Pray, what were yon doing this long, long day?" 

•' I guess I was naughty " ; the maiden sighed ; 
" I pinched my kitten to make her drink, 

But re'ly, truly — I didn't think 
It hurted her any until she cried. 

" And then my mamma glanced up, and said : 
(With a sorry look upon her face :) 
' Would you like to take the kitten's place 
For a while before you go to bed ; 

" 'And belong to some one ' (I saw the wink 

Of her eyes, turned quickly the other way,) 
' Who would do by you as you did to-day 
By the kitten, because — I didn't think'"? 

"And then she told me a little rule, — 

'Twas gold or somethin', perhaps you know; 
And I mean to learn it when I grow 
Bigger, and older — and — go — to — school; 

"And" — Lower the dainty eyelids sink, 
'Till they lightly touch the downy cheek ; 
While we guess the words she failed to speak 
Who went to Dreamland, — and "didn't think." 



58 



What is Deatti? 



MRS. C. M. H. WRIGHT. 



VyHAT is death? We call it a sleep, 
A dreamless sleep in a lowly bed, 
And the strong, the- mighty, the poor, the weak 
Alike must lie with the slumbering dead. 



The fairest, the loveliest, the noblest of earth, 

Lie side by side, in their bed of clay, 
With the beggar, the outcast, the lowest of birth, 

Awaiting in silence the last great day. 

It comes to us all ; we know from our birth, 

That life is not more certain than death, 
And the moment we open our eyes upon earth, 

The end is brought nearer by each single breath. 

Still, still, we toil on, mid pleasure and pain, 
Knowing, yet living as though we knew not 

That step by step we are hastening on 
To death and the grave, our common lot. 

The vaults of the dead send back no reply. 

What is it? All is silent; no answer is given, 
But this much we know, weary pilgrims of earth, 

'Tis the path out of this life, and the doorway to heaven. 



59 



(X Stuby for a picture 

NAN. W. HEALY. 

'"FHE twilight lapses o'er the day's confine, 

And softly clings around each bare outline ; 
A blue blur gathers of the coming night, 
Westward a liquid lemon light, 

Melts in a sunset sea of orange red, 

Whose waves of clearest gold and crimson thread, 
The distant line of trees that seems to lie 
Against the splendor of the evening sky ; 

The red disc of the setting sun shows still, 

A thin sharp rim of jewel light a thrill, 

One large white star trembling with ecstacy, 
Lies on the bosom of the sundown sea ; 

The crescent moon holds in her curved gleam, 

A ghostly circle pallid as a dream. 

Earthward the air is chill and thick with night, 
And in the soft, uncertain ebbing light, 

Two lovers meet, and for a moment's space, 
In silhouette I dimly see each face ; 
And then the sun's great eye has closed its lid, 
The darkness gently falls and all is hid. 

nioort41Iusic 

FRANCIS S. SALTUS. 

"DLOND moonbeams shine in symphonies of light 
Upon the surface of a sleeping lake, 
Blue shadows, deep in dormant depths opaque 
Flit under dainty ripples, moonlit, bright. 

Around the myriad voices of the night 

Blend with the moon's vague song, and make 
Wonderful concerts of soft tunes, that break 

In foam, in sheen, in tuneful, soulful flight. 

Sound like the kiss of wave upon a pearl — 
Sound like the flesh thrill of an amorous girl — 
Music so dream like subtle, that no ear 

Save that of muser can enjoy its balm, 
Sound like the murmur of a falling tear — 

Sound like a twilight hush of endless calm. 

60 



Ci pastoral picture 

CAPT. JACK CRAWFORD "THE POET SCOUT." 

(TOME talk about the beauties o' the early days o' spring 
Wen the bees begin to bumble, an' the birds begin to 

sing, 
An' some are struck on summer, with its sunshine and its 

showers, 
Its early comin' mornin's an' its drawn out evenin' hours. 
Each season has its beauties, an' I sort o' like 'em both, 
An' want to give 'em credit fur adzae'ly w'at they're wuth, 
But my affections hanker fur a time 'at beats 'em all, 
Wen winter come a nosin' 'round the dyin' bed o' Fall. 

Its then the frosty mornin' makes a feller feel his oats, 

An' makes him sing an' holler in happiest o' notes 

Wile fodderin' the cattle, or cornin' up the hogs, 

Or chasin' through the thickets arter rabbits with the dogs. 

His nose feels like a 'lectric light, his blood is on a tear, 

An' health an' vimish vigor seems careenin' in the air, 

An' his heart just thumps with rapture at the Bob White's 

cheery call, 
Wen winter comes a nosin' 'round the dyin' bed o' Fall. 

It's then the neighbors gather at the ol'-time huskin' bee, 
The boys an' gals, an' dads an' mams, all full o' rousin' 

glee, 
An' git around the pile o' corn, each feller by the side 
O' her he thinks the purtiest in all the world so wide. 
An' w'en a feller gits a ear as rosy as her cheeks, 
He's got a legal title to a kiss, despite her shrieks, — 
O' thar' ain't no use talkin', that 'ar season beats 'em all 
W'en winter comes a nosin' 'round the dyin' bed o' Fall. 

An' w'en the supper dishes 'a bin washed an' put away 
An' the floor is cleared for dancin', an' the fiddle gins to 

play, 
Thar' ain't no purtier pictur, if you s'arch the wide world 

o'er, 

61 



Than to see the country people buckle down and welt the 

floor. 
It's sashay all an' balance, an' swing yer purty pards, 
An' git mixed up like shufflin' a pack o' playin' cards, 
An how they go a scootin' at the cry o' " p'om'nade all", 
Wen winter comes a nosin' 'round the dyin' bed o' Fall. 

An' w'en the dancin's over, the gals put on their wraps, 
An' look with sidelong glances upon the crowd o' chaps, 
That stand thar', each a waitin' fur to give a gal his arm, 
An' walk with her, with slow time step, 'cross to her fath- 
er's farm. 
An' then the partin' at the gate, w'en lip is pressed to lip, 
It sots his heart to boundin' like a storm-tossed sailin' ship — 
O' thar' ain't no use o' talkin', that 'ar season beats 'em all, 
W'en winter comes a nosin' 'round the dyin' bed o' Fall. 



Cfyc falling Scares 

P. I). ETUE. 

"V^OU may talk of the dainty violet, 

The very first flower of spring, 
Or the thousand-and-one other posies 

That the showers of April bring. 
The snowdrops, the pansies and roses, 

Are all very nice in their way, 
And so are peonies and lilacs, 

And the lilies that bloom in the bay. 
But of all things in nature most pleasing — 

Pretty lilacs, sweet roses and all — 
For me there is more real enjoyment 

In the leaves of the trees in the fall. 



62 



tEfye ©rtf]ob=ox Ccam 

FRED. EMERSON BROOKS. 

a TTOLD on, stranger! Turn out yonder close to the wall!' 
For the road's rather narrow and I've got it all ! 
Whoa, back, haw there, old Baptist! Whoa, Methodist, whoa! 
These are oxen that need all the road, you must know. 
Yes, I drive without swearin', though strange it may seem, 
For I'm drivin', good stranger, my orthod-ox team!" 
Said the lumberman of Calaveras. 

"That Episcopal ox is of excellent breed. 
He's more noted for style than he is for his speed. 
Though of delicate structure, this ox will not shirk, 
But he never was known, sir, to sweat at his work. 
He's a good, pious ox, never losin' his way, 
For he reads all the signboards and goes not astray!" 
Said the lumberman of Calaveras. 

"There's the good Baptist ox; he's hard shell to the bone 
Close communion in diet — he eats all alone! 
Shakes his head when its raining and closes his eyes ; 
He hates to be sprinkled, though it comes from the skies! 
Why, he won't cross a bridge unless dragged by the team! 
He'll go nowhere, I swan, but down into the stream ! '' 
Said the lumberman of Calaveras. 

"Presbyterian, gee! Congregational, haw! 
They're good stock, let me tell you, and know how to draw ! 
They're so perfectly matched, sir, that very few folk 
Can tell 'em apart when they're out of the yoke! 
But you see a slight difference when it is shown : 
One leans on his elders and one stands alone ! " 
Said the lumberman of Calaveras. 

"There's an ox I term Israel, oldest of all; 
Once he grazed in the garden before Adam's fall ; 
He went into the Ark at the time of the flood, 
And when Pharaoh starved he was chewin' his cud ! 

G3 



There's an ancestry, sir, full of glory, no doubt, 
But for goring the Master they're scattered about ! " 
Said the lumberman of Calaveras. 

" I've an ox over there who tends strictly to ' biz ! ' 
He's the Catholic ox ; what a monster he is ! 
And he keeps growin' big, while he keeps growin' old ! 
And he never lets go where he once gets a hold ! 
He's a strong one, you bet ! why I never yet spoke 
But he started right off, with his neck in the yoke ! " 
Said the lumberman of Calaveras. 

"There's old Methodist, one of the best on the road! 
You'd suppose, by the fuss, he alone dragged the load ! 
How he pulls when I sing hallelujah and shout ; 
But the worst of it, he keeps changin' about ! 
He was bought on probation, and works like a top ; 
But I've had him three years, and suppose I must swop ! " 
Said the lumberman of Calaveras. 

"That suave Universalist many admire 
Thinks the devil's a myth with his great prairie fire ! 
There's an Adventist claimin' to have second sight; 
If he keeps on a guessin' he'll guess the thing right! 
And the Seventh Day Baptist — their numbers are such 
If they do break the Sabbath they don't break it much ! '' 
Said the lumberman of Calaveras. 

"Got a Spiritist? Yes, sir; I bought one by chance; 
When it comes to hard work he goes off in a trance ! 
Nothin' practical, sir, in a medium ox 

When you have to keep proddin' with rappin's and knocks! 
But I must keep movin' and ploddin' along 
With my orthod-ox team, or the world will go wrong ! " 
Said the lumberman of Calaveras. 

" Take the road that I came, and beware of short cuts ! 
You will not lose the way if you follow the ruts. 
I am sorry to force you, my friend, to turn out; 
But this is the regular lumberman's route ! 
On the road of life, stranger, my right is supreme; 
All the world must turn out for my Orthod-ox team ! " 
Said the lumberman of Calaveras. 
64 



Cfye ITlessiaifs Star 

HENRY A. JEFFRIES. 

^VER Judea's hills the luster of a star 

Shed heavenly glory on that sacred night) 
When heaven's host sang in the sky afar 
Praises to God with such profound delight. 

No nimbus placed upon earth's hoary head 
By fair Aurora in the Northern clime, 
E'er rivaled that Star's splendor as it sped 
Toward the heights of Bethlehem sublime. 

The shepherds keeping vigil o'er their flocks, 
Were lost in wonderment intense and deep, 
When, suddenly were lit the distant rocks 
By a strange light which did their vision steep. 

The magi, masters of the occult arcs, 
Were guided by the Star's refulgent ray, 
And, by it ushered to these favored parts, 
Came to the place where earth's Redeemer lay. 

Not in a palace was Emanuel born— 

The wise men to a stall their presents brought: 

No prince's costly raiment did adorn 

The One who from the far off East they sought. 

An era great had dawned upon the age ; 
No longer men would in the darkness grope: 
The rich, the poor, the ignorant, the sage, 
Were given common doctrine, common hope. 

Where all before in mystery was hid, 
Now everything to mortals was made plain; 
And to "repent" were all the Nations bid, 
Thus to prepare for the Messiah's reign. 

Though long delayed for many a century, 
His earthly Kingdom yet will surely come; 
E'en now the fore-gleams of His star we see, 
Who shall bring in earth's glad Millennium. ' 

65 



" Cts a ITCustarb 5cc5 " 

ADALINE HOHF BEERY. 

"CROM a gray clod a tiny shoot upsprings, 

Stretches its limbs, and blinks in the broad sun ; 
As cheerfully abroad its branches run, 
I ask, "What dost thou 'mid these weedy things?" 
" My Master me divine provision brings, 

And bids me grow and bless; how can I shun 
His will? If I but woo and shelter one 
Stray bird, I'm recompensed whene'er it sings." 

O faithless ! must your hearts be taught so oft 

By things inglorious to proclaim the light 

Of prodigal beneficence to men, 
The laboring hands, and eyes that look aloft, 

The sacrifice in deserts wide and white 

Of life itself, expecting not again ? 

Ztlotfycrfyoob 

CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM. 

A baby head silky as butterfly's wing, 

Caresses my loving cheek ; 
Ineffable thrills of the holiest joy 
Bring rapture no tongue can speak. 
This moment I'm one with the angels of heaven ; 
This moment I taste of the bliss to them given ; 
This moment I know how her heart-strings were riven, 
Whose Son was so strong, and meek. 

And so, while the world whirls gaily without, 
Heaven lies in my rocking-chair ; 
Let the mirth and the pomp pass me, careless, by, 
So they leave me my baby there. 
But a day swiftly comes when the heart's alarms 
But presage the cold of my empty arms. 
He is gone where no breath of the chill world harms ; 
Oh, Mother of Christ, help me bear ! 

66 




frrrrt 







(X Storm Syrtc. 

EDGAEDA WILLIAMS. 
I. 

'"TRANQUIL and calm the sea, 

Singing the winds as they blow; 
Far away gleameth a sail, 
Or wing of a bird flying low 

Crimson and gold the west, 

Trembling the young crescent moon. 
" Cometh my lover to-night ? " 

"Nay, not to-night, but soon. " 

II. 

Turbulent, dark the sea, 

Angry the hoarse billows roar; 

Far o'er the deep is a ship 

That never will sail any more. 

Weeping and dull the sky, 

Cold is the moon and pale ; 
" Cometh my lover to-night? " 

The waves only moan and wail. 

They clasp the sands with their arms, 
And they sing in a monotone ; 

While the maiden wrings her hands, 
And walks on the beach alone. 



67 



XDaking tfyc Baby 

CLARA ADELE NEIDIG. 

f~\ Mister, wont you come to the door 
' And wake our baby? It's very late 
For him to be sleeping ; half past eight ! 
This never happened, I'm sure, before. 

He's always first one up in the house ; 

And he laughs, and crows and has such fun, 
There's no more sleeping for any one ; 

But now it's just as still as a mouse. 

I've heard my mama so often say: 

She wished the baby would stay in bed, 
At least 'till the morning news was read 

And things all started well for the day ; 

Because he bothered. She must forget, 
For she tried to wake him long ago ; 
She's not been working; and do you know 

The paper isn't unfolded yet! 

They say, upstairs, he will never wake ; 

But your voice seems very strong and clear, 
And if you speak loud perhaps he'll hear ; — 

Wont you please to try, for mamma's sake ? 

And put these flowers in his hand, for me, 

He wanted a few I had last night ; 

I didn't give, and it wasn't right; — 
I thought he might spoil them, then, you see. 

They even say he's gone to the skies, 

But I saw him half an hour ago ; 

And if you will wake him up, I know 
They'll own he's here, when they see his eyes. 



08 



3 (Ectrmot forget Qlfyee 



MRS. M. A. SENTER. 

[' cannot forget thee; whate'er may betide, 

Love like unto mine will ever abide, 
And aid, and support, in each trying hour, 
And give unto life new beauty and power. 

I cannot forget thee ; the wavelets may be 
Forevermore lost in the breast of the sea, 
But the waves of emotion that come to my heart, 
Remain there forever; they will not depart. 

I cannot forget thee; the cool, gentle shower, 
May scatter bright drops in the heart of the flower, 
Then leave it to perish — to wither away — 
Exposed to the winds, and the sun's scorching ray. 

I cannot forget thee; the pure, pearly dew, 
May nourish the life, it soon will take, too, 
'Till the pride of the garden that once did adorn, 
Is frozen, and stark, and of loveliness shorn. 

I cannot forget thee; the leaves on the tree, 
May glisten awhile, then wither'd they'll be, 
But the buds of affection will evermore bloom, 
And give unto life a lasting perfume. 

I cannot forget thee; the soft balmy air, 
That giveth such life and joy everywhere, 
Impell'd and controll'd by the hurricane's breath, 
Brings only disaster, destruction and death. 

I cannot forget thee; the bright golden ray, 
That warmeth, and turneth the night into day, 
Becometh a demon, beyond all control, 
And leaves in its path only ashes and mold. 

69 



I cannot forget thee ; 'though far from my view, 
The stars may seem lost in their vast home of blue, 
But still we know that with beauty and grace, 
Each star ever shines from its own wonted place. 

I cannot forget thee ; wherever thou art, 
For now of my life you seem such a part, 
That aught that would trouble or disquiet thee, 
Would fling a like shade of sadness o'er me. 

I cannot forget thee ; memories ne'er die, 
But still live on when the earth and the sky 
Have all passed away, and created again, 
With a beauty supernal to ever remain. 



Cfjc Soutfy Winb 

FEANKLIN E. DENTON. 

\\ rHEN maples yield their arteries of sweet 

That flames distill to combless honey; when 
The swollen brook is noisy in the glen, 
And robins, hopping o'er the brown earth, greet 
The gentle dawn with song; when snows retreat 
To fence and forest nook, and high again 
The soft clouds sail the sunny heaven : then, 
The South Wind comes with life and hope replete. 
It knows the grave of every flower that sleeps, 
And wakes each little Eazarus. It dyes 
The eve a richer purple than of Tyre, 
And spills the cloudy cisterns of the skies. 
It lifts the heart like verse ! But how it sweeps 
The chords of memory's pathetic lyre ! 



tTfyc Herniation 



I. S. SMITH. 



/^N a high and solid rock I stand, 

And, looking o'er the sea, 
I vainly strive to view the land 
Of vast futurity. 

Th' apocalypse of every cloud 

Upon the far-off sky, 
I try to read — I cry aloud 

And hear the echoed cry. 

And while I look and weep and pray, 
And wonder why I'm here, 

A ship in black doth call for me, 
To bear me otherwhere. 



Ah, well, 'tis manned by friendly hands, 

No harm it biings to me ; 
It bears me on to better lands, 

Across the silent sea. 

Soon falls the light on th' ocean waste, 

Vibrations fill the sky, 
And o'er the sea I pass, in haste, 

To blest eternity. 

Now lifting up my grateful voice, 

With others gone before, 
We praise our Captain and rejoice 

Together evermore. 



71 



(X {Tribute to a 3ri5c 

M. WINTERMUTE. 

A 17" HAT so fair in this glad hour? 

Not the delicate flower that glows — 
The perfect flower, 

Blushing down to its very heart, love to disclose 

The bright, bright rose. 

What so pure in this glad hour? 

Not the thrill of the notes that start 
With ethereal power, 

In visions transcending all thought holding the heart, 

From earth apart. 

What, so trtie in this glad hour? 

Not the stars that sentinel stand 
At Eden's bower ; 

Parting gateways of gold with invisible wand, 

To heavenland. 

What, so dear in this glad hour? 

Not the dove as it seeks its mate 
When shadows lower ; 

As it flies with its constant wing, weary and late, 

Where love doth wait. 



72 






Cree anb Seaf 



JOSEPH COOK. 

^vNWARD storms my strong-limbed race, 

Pause for me is nigh ; 
Long on earth will men have place, 
Not much longer I. 

Thousand summers kiss the lea, 

Only one the sheaf; 
Thousand springs may deck the tree, 

Only one the leaf. 

Gone already earlier leaves ; 

Lonely on my bough 
Cling I whom the wind bereaves, 

Rustling russet now. 

On Time's leafy carpet I 

Fall in God's great lap ; 
Once we live and when we die 

Feed the Future's sap. 

Seed whose sap God's light allures 

Riseth from the sod ; 
In a tropic heaven matures 

Whoso loveth God. 

Grow, great Igdrasil ! Thy roots 

Drink God's glittering dew ; 
In thy sunniest topmost shoots, 

We our life renew. 



73 



Dreaming 

GRACE HIBBARD. 

TDLY sitting by my window, fair dreams dreaming 

Dreaming snowy clouds are castles seeming, 
Built on gray rocks in the sky sea lying, 
Stormed by golden sunbeam arrows flying. 

Idly sitting by my window, fair dreams dreaming — 
Dreaming snowy clouds are white waves gleaming, 
On the tropic blue of sky sea dashing, 
In the brightness of the sunset flashing. 

Idly sitting by my window, fair dreams dreaming — 
Dreaming white clouds are cherub faces beaming, 
With bright, fleecy hair around them streaming. 
In the twilight idly sit I, dreaming. 

Idly sitting by my window, fair dreams dreaming — 
Castles proud, white waves, cherub faces beaming, 
Turned to empty air, like all earth's dreaming; 
But above me, lo, the stars are gleaming. 

(Bol6en=Hob 

CAROLINE W. D. RICH. 

f\ GOLDEN-ROD, golden-rod, nestling in green, 
^^^ A joy to all eyes is thy beautiful sheen! 

who could the sunshine's bright treasures unfold, 
And leave on thy petals such luminous gold ! 

1 bow down my head with my ear to the sod, 
And listen for answer, O fair golden rod ! 

A whisper — so gentle it may be the whir 

Of a butterfly's wing, or thy rootlet's faint stir — 

In musical cadences softly replies : 
u An angel came down with his wonderful dyes, 
And painted, and painted until, as you see, 
Our faces are golden as golden can be.'' 

74 



title ITJessage 



W. B. SEABKOOK 



HHHE summer sun fell on his low-drooping head 

And touched the gray locks with a glory of gold, 
As he pondered in sadness of days that had sped 

And the youth that had left him, deserted and old. 
The grave had bereft him — his wife was no more, 

His children no longer made merry at play, 
And he grieved as he sat by his old cabin door, 

And chanted, "I yeddy from Heaben to-day." 

" From Heaben to day, from Heaben to-day," 

And he tapped on his knee with enlivening zest, 
And bright grew his eye with a love-light ray 

As the mem'ries awakened that slept in his breast. 
Fond faces came back to him, seen through his tears, 

Far voices re-echoed the intimate lay, 
And his bosom grew fervent with unspoken prayers, 

As he chanted, " I yeddy from Heaben to-day." 

He was cheerless and lonely, half naked and ill, 

He was weary, so weary, of life and its tears : 
He was wasted and worn ; yet submissively still 

He accepted the trials that burdened his years. 
What king in his kingdom was richer than he ? 

What prince, 'mid the realms of the wealthy and gay? 
From fleshly desire what bosom so free ? 

As he chanted, " I yeddy from Heaben to-day." 

" From Heaben to-day, from Heaben to-day," 

And his palsied head sank on his laboring chest; 
This world and it sorrows were passing away, 
He was sinking — unconsciously sinking — to rest. 

75 



To the mystical message his soul was replying 
In praises outpoured through his rude, simple lay ; 

And though he suspected it not, he was dying, 
As he murmured, " I yeddy from Heaben to-day." 



The summer sun fell on his low-drooping head 

And crowned the gray locks with a halo of light, 
But he felt not its warmth, for the old man was dead; 

The message was answered — his spirit in flight. 
They found him ere long— the good friends of his race, 

And they whispered of death in an awe-stricken way; 
But they said, when they saw the calm smile on his face, 

" Brudder Peter is yeddy from Heaben to-day." 



CI7C (£agc5 ITigfytingale 

OTTO SOUBRON. 

"T^ROM foreign climes a nightingale 

In gilded cage is yearning ; 
She sings a sad and plaintive tale — 
Her little heart is burning. 

Her warbling notes soft o'er me steal — 
Like dewdrops they are falling; 

Dead dreams of old, past woe and weal 
Again they are recalling. 

Caged nightingale, O cease thy lay, 
Recall not thus past yearning ; 

I know thy tale — away, away ! 
With pain my heart is burning ! 
76 



XDfyom (Dtfyers (£nt>y 

ROSE HARTWICK THOEPE. 

"T^HROUGH years of toil and sacrifice 

He climbed Fame's ladder, round by round, 
Nor rested till his hand had grasped the prize 

For which he toiled. Self-made, self-crowned, 
He stood among his lofty dreams, and weighed 

Their worth together with the price he paid. 

A millionaire! — he bartered love for this, — 

Love binds the wings of him who would arise. 

He rose unfettered. Now with famished eyes 

He gazes on another's Paradise, 
While memory taunts him with a shy, sweet kiss, 
A frightened, fluttering thing, the first, the last 
No childish voices echo through his past : 

He wears his laurels, but he paid their price. 



tEf]c IJears 

L. A. NICHOLS. 

A year, to childhood, oh, how long! 
Will it ever come to an end ? 
Will the days and weeks and lingering months 

Their silent march extend, 
As slowly on thro' the years to be 
As now they move ; ah me, ah me ! 

A year to middle age, how short ! 

So quickly come and gone ; 
Oh, that the hours would move more slow, 

For the work that must be done 
Ere the years of our life shall come to a close, 

And we earn the last and long repose. 

The present mingles with the past, 

And silently steals away ; 
To childhood slow, to manhood swift, 

But surely and for aye ; 
While the deeds of our lives with hopes and fears, 

Are stored away with the garnered years — 

To reappear at the eventide, 

When the sunset gilds the lea, 
And a backward look reveals how brief 

Is life ; ah me, ah me ! 
But there is unending life and song, 

And eternity is long, so long! 



Seyonb tfye Sfyabovos 

I. M. BUDD. 

OEYOND the purple shadows 
That 'round the sunset lie, 
There shines a fairer glory 

Whose radiance cannot die. 
Its lustre falls forever 

Upon the streets of gold, 
And lights the walls of jasper 

With splendors never told. 

Oft when we toil in sorrow, 

Or faint with burning heat, 
Longing in Heavenly mansions 

To dwell in Christ complete ; 
Afar those splendors cheer us, 

But only Faith's clear eye 
Can pierce the mystic shadows 

That round our pathway lie. 

Beyond death's silent river 

Are pleasures evermore, 
There rest in peace the loved ones 

Who journey on before. 
Our hearts reach out with longing 

To share their perfect day, 
Beyond the drifting shadows 

That fill the twilight gray- 
When sitting in life s sunset 

We chant our evening hymn ; 
When earthly sounds grow fainter 

And earthly scenes wax dim, 
O, may the wondrous brightness 

Of Heaven's unclouded sky 
Dispel the darkening shadows 

That in earth's twilight lie. 



T 



Co mobile 23mj 



Ii. IRWIN HUNTINGTON. 



HY sad, gentle waves tell the listening moon 



And sob to the far-reaching piers, 
A story as low as the sigh of a dream, 

As soft as the falling of tears ; 
Wistfully, tenderly, mournfully slow, 
As centuries come and centuries go, 
Murmuring ever in petulent woe, 

Murmuring on through the years. 

And wherefore, I pray thee, disconsolate wave, 

Thy mission in sadness deplore, 
And like a faint soul and the shadow of sin, 

Thus claspest, then spurnest, the shore 
So wistfully, dreamily, solemnly slow, 
Whispering ever in petulent woe, 
As the centuries come and the centuries go, 

Whispering on through the years ? 

For thee the magnolias are breathing from shore 

Their being in fragrance away ; 
An now the sun-god, now Endymion's love, 

Caresses thy bosom, sweet Bay. 
Yet ceaselessly, solemnly, musically slow, 
As centuries come and centuries go, 
Still thou art telling thy mystical woe, 

Wearily on through the years. 

'Tis true, when the mocking-birds tenderly sing, 

Thy sadness to sweetly beguile, 
Thou stillest the moan of each whispering wave, 

And shroudest its grief in a smile ; 
But wistfully, longingly, waiting we know 
Thy heart's sorrow peers Irom the waters below, 
And gladness leans back on the bosom of woe 

And sighs that its brightness must die. 

80 



Can it be some Undine forsaken and lone, 

Impartest her anguish to thee, 
Or, fearest thou, mayhap, thy sister, the Sound, 

Nor lovest the Mexican sea? 
Or, is it that like all the human you know, 
Though heaven's rare graces are falling below, 
Thou murmurest ever in petulent woe, 

Fretfully on through the years ? 



December 



HENRY A. JEFFRIES. 

The cold wind is blowing, 
The snow-drifts are growing, — 

Old Boreas has full sway ; 
The bare boughs are sighing, 
The old year is dying 

And soon will have passed away. 

So in this life's iourney : 
The knight of the tourney 

No longer enters the lists, 
But silently waiting. 
His strengh fast abating — 

Then disappears in the mists. 



81 



£f?c mistletoe 

C. S. PERCIVAL. 

A \ THEN summer is green 'mid the shadowing trees, 

Where fondly the mistletoe clings, 
The passer, mayhap, m the verdure ne'er sees 
What they hide with their sheltering wings. 
It may flourish unseen 
'Mid the wide-spreading green 
Of the fostering bough where it clings. 

But autumn comes forth on his mission of death, 

To revel in summer's bright realm, 
To scatter the leaves with his pitiless breath, 
And the bride of the forest overwhelm. 
Then the mistletoe green 
In its beauty is seen, 
Cling true to its desolate elm. 

And then 'tis a joy in their beauty to see 

Its tiny white blossoms appear, 
Which ripen to fruit while the fostering tree 
In winter is naked and sear. 

Thus the mistletoe green. 
In the summer unseen, 
Findeth life in the death of the year. 

And thus in a heart that is noble and true, 

The rarest of virtues may dwell, 
In time of prosperity hid from the view, 
By that which adorneth it well. 

They may flourish unseen, 
Like the mistletoe green, 
When summer is clothing the dell. 

82 






But when the chill winds of adversity blow 
And the pleasure that earth can impart, 
Like verdure autumnal is shrouded in woe, 
Those virtues that uever depart, 
Like the mistletoe green, 
In the autumn are seen, 
Cling true to that desolate heart. 

Then fortitude, patience and heavenly faith, 

In lustre undying appear ; 
And life-giving hope, sweetly smiling on death, 
Points up to a holier sphere. 

Like the mistletoe green, 
All their beauty is seen 
When the winter of life draweth near. 



3une 



WESLEY COUCHMAN. 

T TOW lovely are thy ways, O gentle June! 

The children bless thee midst their merry plays; 
The cattle of the pastures give thee praise ; 

The honey-pilfering insect gives thee tune, 

As 'mong thy clustering bulbs he hath commune, 
Thinking thee transient ; all the more thy ways 
Have charm through pregnant round of lengthened days, 
Ere fervid heat shall parch thy juices soon. 

Thine over-fertile bosom swells with milk ; 
In thy lap, we, as cradled infants, lie ; 
With sustenance thou givest lullaby ; 

Thy tresses fallen about us soft as silk. 
Intoxicate with fullness of thy charms, 
We fall adrowse in pleasurance of thine arms. 

83 



tEfyc 2Tcglectcb $lute 



J. G. PULLING. 



TWENTY-FIVE years the flute 

Laid away, snug and mute ; 
Dry and shrill was the every note 
Coming out of its dusty throat. 
But the flute was heard to say : 
"Come, old master, try to play. 
Now softly, softly blow ; 
Play lightly and with care ; 
Echo sounds of long ago, 
With music fill the air." 

In pity for the long forsaken, 

The flute out of its place was taken, 

And mellow tones arose 

Which had been heard by those 

Near to the player's heart 

That time had forced apart ; 

The notes now rising free 

Resemble childish glee ; 

And now a joyous strain 

Recalls his youth again. 

Sounds fall and rise 

Like lovers' sighs 

And soft replies. 

Dance and quadrille, 

And tunes sharp and shrill 

Follow — until 

The tired flute lays still. 

"Old friends we are, 
Show me some care, 
Come back and play 
Some leisure day?" 
Was last and all the flute could say. 
84 



2Tty mother's $acz 

E. M. P. BBISTER. 

T KNOW that such a sinner 

As I feel myself to be, 
Should scarcely hope to enter 
A blest eternity. 

But, I've dared to dream of heaven — 
That far-off world of bliss, 

Whose lightest joy transcends 
The greatest good of this. 

And I've thought, were I so happy 

As at the last to stand 
With the hosts of blest immortals 

That dwell at God's right hand ; 

And to catch a glimpse of heaven 

In all the glorious grace 
That serves to fitly make it 

Our God's own dwelling place ; 

With its walls of crystal jasper 

Whose foundations ne'er grow old ; 

With its gates of purest pearl, 
And its streets of glittering gold ; 

With its throngs of happy spirits 
Whose bliss no mortal knows, 

Redeemed from all earth's sorrows, 
Redeemed from all life's woes. 

Not these, nor all the beauteous tints 
That bloom on Heaven's skies, 

Could win the first, long, eager 
Worship of mine eyes. 

But, I'd turn from all such glories — 
Lord, forgive, if I lack in grace ! 

To take a long, enraptured look 
At my darling mother's face.. 

85 



Ctslccp voxtl] Jackson 



T. C. DE LEON. 

[Unlike the North, the South has no uniform date for decorating the graves of her soldier 
dead; the occasion at Winchester, in the "Stonewall Cemetery," being the Oth of June, the an- 
niversary of Turner Ashby's death, which has been observed since the year succeeding the war. 
For the last decoration, Colonel Henry Kyd Douglas, of Jackson's staff, hurried from the Lee 
monument unveiling, at Richmond, to deliver the oration over the confederate dead at Win- 
chester. He began by narrating this touching incident: 

"The morning after the unveiling of the Lee statue, as the sun rose over Richmond, its first 
rays fell upon a row of figures, wrapped in gray blankets and sleeping on the green grass around 
the statue of Jackson, in Capitol square. As the sun grew brighter and the bustle of life moved the 
city, one by one, these figures unrolled themselves from their blankets — here a grayhead, 
there a graybeard — got up, yawned and stretched themselves in the morning air. Just then a 
citizen passing by said to them, in kindly anxiety: 'Heavens, men ! could you find no other beds 
in Richmond last night '? ' Yes, there were plenty of places,' answered one; 'all Richmond was 
open to us. But he turned his eyes toward the silent face of his immortal chief and, with a throb 
in his throat, added, 'we were his boys, and we wanted to sleep with the Old Man just once 
more.' "] 

HPHE soft, all-glorying touch of God's own hand, 

Just tipped with gold all Richmond's spires fair; 
Fresh song of matin birds, in cadence bland, 

Made mellow music all the morning air. 
Rolled back the rose clouds curtain slowly then 

O'er all the east, before the day king's mien, 
And hurrying feet of early-moving men 

Pass'd 'bout the mound where Jackson stands serene. 

Not where that city lies, so still and fair, 

Peopled by young and old — by small and great — 
Who battled brave and constant, year by year 

Heroic, holding still the old town's gate — 
Not there, amid tall shaft and simple mound. 

Rear statued forms that bare each passing head. 
These make of busy haunts such hallowed ground 

No man remembers LEE, or Jackson — dead! 

Where looms the Capitol, antique and pure, 

The great First Rebel points the storied past; 
Around him grouped Virginia's great of yore, 

With Stone wall's statue, greatest and the last. 
Prone on its sod, in soldiei-sleep again, 

Wrapped in their blankets gray as in days of old, 
Slumber a score of staunch and stalwart men 

With whitening hair, but faces firm and bold. 

86 



Flash through their dreams the Valley's meteor-march 

Manassas' wall and Sharpsburg's blood and stress; 
Looms the dun smoke 'fore Richmond — soon to arch 

With gloomy pall the fateful Wilderness ! 
Slowly they wake, damp with the morning dew, 

And grave, sad-visaged, from the grass arise 
As one makes answer for that constant few, 

To hasty passer, halting in surprise — 

"Yea, well we know" — the grizzle vet'ran said, 

With all real feeling's simple eloquence — 
"Richmond has freely offered board and bed 

To every man who fought in her defense. " 
His eyes pathetic seek, in tender trust, 

The chisled face of Stonewall, loved of yore — 
"But we were Jackson's boys; we felt we must 

Sleep here, around the Old Man, just once more ! " 

Patience awhile, great hearts! The glorious light 

Of dawn smiles through the travail, strain and loss 
Of that dark, bitter, endless-seeming night, 

For such as ye, who steadfast bore the cross! 
For History, Time and Justice— deathless three— 

Now group about that newer statue's base 
To point their audience — worlds — Eternity — 

LEE, Jackson-like, exemplar for his race ! 

Patience awhile true hearts ! Ere long that light, 

Purer, more fair than aught on earth may shine, 
Shall clear illume that then-forgotten night 

And Jackson's roll-call hold each name of thine ! 
Near the Great Captain— his war kingship changed 

To sweeter peace — abides thy leader, sure 
That souls like thine, beneath Truth's banner ranged, 

Shall with the Old Man sleep for evermore! 



87 



& Scssort for Caesars 

OTTO SOUBRON. 

/^ALIGUIvA throned in the Hippodrome; 
Around the cream and scum of Rome ; 
Of women bewitching and maidens fair 
And valorous men were many there. 

The rabble was there, a surging sea, 
That tossed and roared with furious glee. 
This cry rent the air in the Hippodrome : 
"The hour for the fair barbarian has come!" 

The cry was heard within the pen 

Where stood a band of swarthy men. 

They beat their breasts, their eyes flashed fire, 

Their swollen veins seemed to burst with ire. 

The portals opened, they took their stand, 
But one by one they kissed the sand, 
The blood-stained sand of the Hippodrome, 
Felled by a maid — before all Rome! 

With high raised sword, steeped deep in blood, 

In naked purity she stood ; 

Her golden tresses around her streamed, 

A barbarian goddess stern she seemed. 

Within her eyes a strange fire's blaze — 
The tyrant trembled before their gaze ; 
• And a hush there fell o'er boisterous Rome 
As her words rang clear in the Hippodrome. 

88 



These words she spake : " I was doomed to die, 
Disgraced, by the slaves that yonder lie — 
A woman, I, from Saxon lands ; 
I've felled them with my own weak hands. 

A marvel, tyrant, this seems to thee? 
Behold, this woman is chaste and free ! " 
She pierced her breast, but the slaves of Rome 
Saw freedom rise in the Hippodrome. 



you 



CHARLES L. DEAN. 



/^H, best of friends, who taught me how to love, 

Who taught me what no other friend could do 
If God would give me whatsoe'er I willed, 
I'd ask for you. 

Kings might wear crowns, with richest jewels set, 
And statesmen gain the praise to greatness due, 
Their wealth and glory I would envy not, 
Had I but you. 

Poets might sing of Eden's happy bowers — 
Artists portray its beauties to our view, 
Still would I prize as fairer spot, by far, 
My home with you. 

And when our souls had bade farewell to earth 
And in immortal lands did live anew, 
I'd crave no other paradise than this — 
Your love and you. 



G 



2Ttg (Barken 



CLARA ADELE NEIDIG. 

nOWN in my garden are blossoms fair, 

Lifting their heads to the sun's bright rays; 
Scattering perfume upon the air, 

As incense sweet to the summer days. 

When the earth with springing blade was green, 
I watched each leaf as it came in sight ; 

Carefully plucking the weeds between 

My flowers, seeking the warmth and light. 

"What harm for such little weeds to grow" — 
Said Mistress Sloth, with a weary sigh — 

"A few short weeks?" But I answered: " Lo ! 
These bear no blossoms to glad the eye." 

And now as I gaze from my window down, 
'Tis a charming sight that meets the view ; 

Each flower-stalk lifting its head, a-crown 
With color of richest rainbow hue. 

I've a garden hidden from inortal sight, 

And choicest seeds have been planted there; 

If they struggle upward and find the light, 
I know the bloom will be wondrous fair ; 

But the weeds spring up in this garden, too ; 
And I, in careless mood, ol say : 
"What harm can such small intruders do, 
If left to grow but a single day?" 

O Heart ! Thou garden with good thoughts sown ! 

This daily task must be mine, I see : 
To pluck each weed-thought, lest older grown 

It hide some Blossom of Truth from me. 



90 



Ctrt (EMtorial Contrast 



CAPT. JACK CRAWFORD, THE " POET SCOUT." 

T'VE been a ruminatin' on the editors I see, 

That come from 'way back yonder on a sort o' jam- 
boree, 
A lot o' well-fed fellers, wearin' hifalutin clothes, 
An' tol'able good lookin', fnr as manly beauty goes. 

An' I find myself contrastin' their condition with the boys 
That hold the frontier sentiment in sort o' equipoise — 
The Arizona Kicker brand, whose brainy bugle toots 
Where the musical six-shooter robs the courts o' libel suits. 

Back East opinion architects have nothing else to do 

But write an' think an' think an' write 'bout everything 

'at's new, 
But in the free an' easy West, across the dreary plains, 
The bulk o' editorial work is done outside o' brains. 

The editor is coroner, an' justice o' the peace, 

An' makes out legal papers from a last will to a lease, 

Umpires the dog-fights of his town, the two or fore-legged 

sort, 
An' acts as final referee in all degrees o' sport. 

He's lookout fur a faro game, an' often takes a trick, 
A practicin' o' medicine w'en anybody's sick ; 
He plays a nervy poker game (assisted by his sleeve), 
Laughs with the people in their joys an' grieves with them 
as grieves. 

He allers makes the speeches on the F'orth Day o' July, 
An' plays the parson's hand when thar's a nuptial knot to 

tie, 
An' now an' then contracts to do some practicin' at law, 
W'en either party wants a man 'at slings a hefty jaw. 

91 



His sanctum table allers sets a facin' to the door, 
So's when an angry citizen comes smellin' arter gore, 
He ain't got no advantage, an' kin seldom git the drop, 
On the publisher an' editor an' owner o' the shop. 

He wears his britches in his boots an' never combs his hair, 

Except fur legal holiday or extra big affair, 

An' thinks a starchy collar is a mark o' servitude, 

An' wearin' socks excusable in nothin' but a dude. 

He's prominent at lynchins', calls the figgers at a dance, 
Works a minin' speculation every time he gets a chance. 
Keeps a pair o' runnin' hosses fur the Territorial fair, 
An' never shirks a meetin' when he's asked to lead in prayer. 

So I find myself contrastin' his condition with the men 
Who preach out to a nation with a stubby-p'inted pen, 
An' he seems to be more usefeller a dogonation sight 
Than them 'at don't do nothin' top o' God's green earth but 
write. 



<Dn the Dcatf) of a £f?U5 



P. D. ETUE. 

1\/T OTHER, I've gone, but do not weep; 

For me 'tis only a pleasant sleep. 
With myriads of angels I'm happy above, 
Waiting and watching for those whose love 
Sustained me so well in my infant years, 
And have shed o'er me many bitter tears. 
Bear up, dear parents, 'till God calls you home, 
To meet your child at His heavenly throne. 



92 



ComorrotD 

ADAEINE HOHF BEERY. 

WAIT yet, O patient heart, 
Till one more sun shall bloom upon the hills; 
Smother the throb whose depths, with mystic art, 
Love fills ! 

The days are long and trite 

While he is absent, and no voice can rouse 
My soul like memoried whispers breathed one night — 

His vows ! 

I shall be folded soon 

In arms that pledged their shelter round my life, 
Whose hands would lead me into shine of noon — 

His wife ! 

O, if my love should die, 

Or could no more return, then, Father, just 
But kind, my bosom's broken tendrils tie 

With trust. 



93 



(D ZTToaning Sea 

CAROLINE W. D. RICH. 

r\ MELANCHOLY Sea! there comes a moaning 
^^^ That tells of secret sorrow all thine own. 
What hast thou done, O Sea, that needs atoning? 

Some charmed grot hast thou, pearl lined, gem-strown? 
O Sea, what hast thou done ! 

Hast .thou some freighted boat with frenzied billow 
Rocked till its fragile bonds asunder part? 

Lies there some maiden on thy sea-green pillow, 
O moaning Sea — some earth-born, breaking heart? 
O Sea, what hast thou done ! 

O restless Sea ! a blight rests on thy gladness ; 

A wailing echo fills thy undertone ; 
A longing and regret even in thy madness ; 

Pleading and fear united in thy moan ! 
O Sea, what hast thou done ! 



RUTH WARD KAIIN. 

'THE love of youthful years — oh, how unlike 

The selfish passion of our later life ! 
Then we are all devotion — and the thrill 
An angel feels when first is seen in heaven, 
God's truth-revealing radiance — then is ours. 
Nothing above, below appears as fair 
As the lucid features of the one we love. 
Dawns smile is not more clear — the brightest star 
That melts as morn away is not more pure. 

<J4 













*r: 












'V- '" 



Sub JTTonkm 



HELEN MARE HURD. 



A \7 HEN noon was waning overhead, 

Our shadows followed where we went,. 
Until where spangled lichens spread. 
Upon the rock we pitched our tent. 



Low sloped the ledge ; upreared aloft 

Twin heights with shrub of scanty growth. 

But springing mosses grey and soft, 

Crept o'er their fronts and clothed them both. 

Nor sound of voice, nor song of bird, 
Broke silence on the rocky waste ; 

Yet sunlit skies were only blurred, 

Where light clouds each the other chased. 

Exiled from Home by love of art, 
From social bonds granted recess, 

We stood, from all the world apart — 
And 'neath our feet the wilderness. 

And yet no subtle lotus bloom 

Our senses chained to solitude, 
For all the world our hearts held room, 

Garden and waste alike were good. 

Below us. w,here the blossoms sprung, 

The sunlight softened over all, 
And sunshine splendors lowly hung, 

Adorned with gems the granite wall. 

Far, far below, fr m whence we came, 
In miniature were feeding flocks, 

As, foreheads bared and thoughts aflame,, 
We saw the grandeur of the rocks. 

95 



Cfje X>ying (Bypsy (girl 

M. F. HUBNER. 

f AM dying, mother, dying, 

Clasp me closer to thy breast ; 
Sing the song that in my childhood 
Charmed and lulled me into rest. 
Few the years that o'er my pathway 
Have their darkened shadows cast, 
Now the heavenly light is glowing, 
Fade the shadows of the past. 

Remember'st thou the dark-eyed stranger 

That came to the Gypsy tent. 
Roaming with him on the green sward, 

Happy were the days I spent ; 
But he left me, left me, mother, 

To a fairer one he paid 
.All the tender fond devotion 

Once he gave the Gypsy maid. 

Tell that gentle lovely maiden 

To beware the tempter's guile ; 
Tell her 'twas the dying warning 

Of thy hapless, wayward child ; 
Tell her that no smile was brighter 

Than the careless Gypsy maid's; 
Tell her that no step was lighter, 

Bounding o'er the flowery glades. 

But my joy was turned to sadness, 

Smiles were chased away by tears, 
Then my heart forgot its gladness, 

Naught was left but woe and fears. 
•Clasp me closer to thy bosom, 

Kiss thy Zillah's brow once more, 
I am drifting, mother, drifting, 

Onward to the heavenlv shore. 



96 



Ct IDintcr iavon 

FAY HEMPSTEAD. 

EAD bent stands the slender birch-tree ; 
Droop the needles of the pine ; 
All is Winter, bitter Winter, 

Through this level lawn ol mine. 



H 



Frozen lie the tender rose-shoots ; 

Glazed the holly's emerald sheen ; 
Heavy hang the clustered bunches 

Of the swaying evergreen. 

Here are broad walks, heaped and hidden 

In a billowed winding-sheet ; 
Brittle grasses broken by the 

Pelting pebbles of the sleet. 

Every leaf is clad in crystal ; 

Rare are jewels such as these ; 
Every ray of white light scatters 

Glancing silver through the trees. 

Loudly through the barren branches 
Cutting gales arise and blow ; 

Like a solemn wind-voice wailing 
O'er the wastes of sifted snow. 

Yonder poplars by the border, 

Bend in sheaths of quaint device ; 

Every crackling twig and leaflet 
Hangs with tapered spikes of ice. 

Patience yet; though all be dreary, 
Pinched in Winter's sorest frown ; 

Though yon sky be gray and cheerless ; 
Boughs be naked, leaves be brown ; 

Yet the seasons are eternal, 

And beyond the morrow's reign 

Comes a stronger light to waken 
Nature into warmth again. 

97 



And above the narrow Present, 
Moving from the frozen ground, 

Yet shall rise in after-beauty, 
Life that lieth winter-bound. 



Deab Dreams 



ELIZABETH KANTZ. 



O 



H, the moonlight! Oh, the starlight! 
Oh, the glorious nights of June ! 
When the honeysuckle creeper 
Swing its bells in time and tune. 



And the roses — oh, the roses ! 

How their perfume filled the breeze, 
That came sighing from the garden 

Over there among the trees. 

Music rising — music falling — 
Sweetest dream of melody ! 

In its soft, harmonious swelling, 
Bringing rapture unto me. 

Bringing rapture, keenest rapture — 

Rapture most like agony; 
Like a prophecy of evil, 

Telling of what was to be. 

Telling of a time yet coming, 
When the roses should be dead ; 

When the music should be silent, 
And the sky be dark o'er head. 

Of a time when I should wander 
Through the garden walks alone ; 

And the very brteze be silent, 
That in former days had blown. 



CI Dtstnfyeriteb Snigfyt 

TILFORD DAVIS, JR. 

if HAD a dream, or saw a vision, say — 

A hero rose — uphors'd him for the fray ; 
His visage stern and swart, yet glance serene 
While air his parts lent glory to his mien. 

Two hundred years upon his humble head, 
Ten million wrongs their grief and pain had shed ; 
In single faith and hope the load he bore — 
Through death in life, fell wrongs and sorrows sore. 

Deprived of rights, to Caucusus he cries — 
Long-sounding plaints whose justice rend the skies ;- 
Ye Heaven-blest, whose wealth and pride art drawn 
From grinding toil and labor of his brawn ! 

Foul Prejudice, all loathsome, rank and mean, 
With Hydra-head, stands Hope and him between ; 
Yet, daring all, courageous makes he way, 
O'er fallen hosts — dead wrecks of Time's decay. 

Internal weakness plays its secret part, 

Ignoble work ! to still a hero's heart ; 

Still like a god his energy he flings 

O'er niggard earth and strives for Heav'nly things 

How calm he stands ! unawed by gnashing rage, 
Sphinx-like he moves — the Problem of the age. 
How meek ! his pride for wisdom sank, 
Like men of eld, at master's feet they drank ! 

99 



A change must come to men, and all their works ; 
In selfish pride and hate there danger lurks, 
A time will come when men must prove their worth, 
And failing there, must sink to nether earth. 

The nations of the earth, a motley crew, 
Send forth their marshall'd hosts in grand review; 
Bright gold, and gems, and panoply of blood 
Flaunt sea on sea, a dazzling flood. 

O bright and rich, and dazzling this array! 
B'en Heaven smiles ; all cloudless was the day; 
By strength of arms, their nations' worth to prove, 
The champions come, for country and for love. 

Among the host a sable knight is seen, 
'Side fleur-de-lis, engraved on silver sheen ; 
His helmet barred, yet armor cannot hide 
From eyes of love the hero of their pride. 

And now the battle's on ! he sinks ! he falls ! 
But. no! like Briareus, strength befalls; 
Uprising swift, the foe he smites again ; 
Affront him, ye who may ; ye must be men ! 

In dire suspense, the issue wait we all, 
For in our hero, champion, we must fall ; 
■Or, falling not, perchance the mead of praise 
Be his and ours through all succeeding days ! 

With bated breath, in fear we turn our eyes 
As champion reels, and falling, breathless lies; 
Yet pride must sink and might must yield to right; 
The victor comes — behold our sable knight ! 

Upon his shield, in sable letters dight. 

His people told — resplendent with new light; 

And 'neath the words, unriddled to all lands, 

For now, to God, she "shall stretch forth her hands!" 

10J 



£f]e Song of tfye Sfyell 

JUNIUS L. HEMPSTEAD. 

^PHERE lived by the sea a maiden fair, 

Brown was her skin and golden her hair. 
All day the sad waves were whispering low, 
As she sat by the tide with its ebb and flow 
To tell of the love that was dead. 

She toyed with a shell, some stranger's abode, 
That was tossed by the deep where argosies rode. 
Now only a chamber to echo the roar, 
The song of the deep, but ah ! nevermore, 
Nevermore ! for love's longing was dead. 

Closer she pressed to her listening ear, 

The tenantless door that was empty and drear, 

Just for a message from over the sea, 

Will the whispering winds bring only to me, 

The same doleful murmur, the same nevermore. 

She upbraided the shell for the answer it gave, 
As it sang every song of the tumbling wave, 
A requiem soft, a murmer so lew, 
And the tale was untold, and the voiceless woe 
Sank into her waiting heart. 

Perhaps the cold wave that dashed at her feet, 
Had wandered away from the sides of the fleet, 
To bring her a message, some balm for her loss, 
Every banishing curve, every foam-crested toss, 
Only kissed the white beach and was gone. 

The maiden is dead, but the sea as before, 
Softly pulses the tide while the sad nevermore, 
Is the notes of its song, is the tale that is old, 
As the waves softly ebb from the rocks gray and cold, 
To be lost in the infinite deep. 



101 



0]c (grateful 2\am 



S. M. WATSON. 



Rain, rain, rain ! how many complain, 
Because of the beautiful rain ; 
But the grass is green, the wood path clean, 
And the water shines with a silver sheen, 
As on it falls the rain. 

Wet, wet, wet ! it has not done yet ; 
The red-breast sings while others fret ; 
On a swaying bough, I hear him now 
As he sings and sings, I cannot tell how, 
While he is wet with rain. 

Dash, dash, dash ! the willow boughs lash 
The swelling stream with lazy plash ; 
While dripping with rain, their low refrain 
Is always the same again and again 
"We love, we love the rain." 

Drip, drip, drip ! the water fowls dip, 
And o'er the laughing waters skip ; 
On a rainy day, they love to play, 
And by actions plainer than words they say, 
"We do enjoy the rain." 

Sop, sop, sop, will it ever stop? 
Like sparkling diamonds every drop, 
The rain a blessing from heaven lent, 
To the just and the unjust kindly sent, 
The grateful, grateful rain. 



102 



A 



Cfye ©lb Horse &ing 



TOMMIE S. TURNER. 

N OLD Norse king, one stormy night, 
Sat in the light of his blazing fire ; 
The dry log burned, the blaze grew bright 
Until the hall was filled with light, 

As the blaze kept leaping higher and higher. 

The tempest madly raged without, 

And tossed the grandest trees in its might; 
As soldiers storm a strong redoubt, 
And beat against the walls and shout, 

So it beat' the king's great hall that night. 

Darker than Egypt was the night, 

And the wind blew with a hollow §ound ; 
The old king's hall was made more bright 
By the darkness without; the light 

Filled the hall's dark recesses around. 

Such is the night, as by his fire 

The old king talks with his counselors 

Of human life and its desire, 

Its destiny and passion fire, 

And the thoughts of each in turn he hears. 

And while they talk a sound is heard, 

As, fluttering from the wind and rain, 
In at the window comes a bird, 
Flies o'er them and is then unheard, 
For it flies through the window again. 

"Such," said the king, "is the life of man; 
Out of the darkness into the light, 
Through the light into the darkness again ; 
Iyost in the storm and chaos amain, 

Lost in the dark, tempestuous night!" 
103 



"Aye," said a courtier, bent with years, 

And the light in his old eyes was fond, 
And they sparkled with unshed tears, 
"Aye, the bird's flight a lesson bears, 
For the bird has a nest beyond ! '' 



IDintcr, anb tt]c poor 

JAMES THOMAS WARD. 

COFTLY falls the feathery snow, 

Rudely, chilling winds do blow, 
Brightly now the coal-fires glow, 
For cold winter 's come. 

Closely 'round the fireside draw, 
From the snow and winds secure, 
But, oh ! think ye of the poor, 
Without house or home. 

Go, and bid them to partake 
Of your comforts for His sake, 
Who, when here on earth, did take 
Pity on the poor. 

Yea, who did Himself bereave 
Of the highest wealth, to give 
Unto all who will receive, 
Riches evermore. 



104 



3rt tEitnligfyt £?ours 

CLARENCE H. UKNEE. 

OOMETIMES in twilight hours when earth assumes 

Her dusky garb, and silence holds her sway, 
The mind will wander from us far away, 

To mingle with the softly gathering glooms, 
Till all our fancies, draped in sable plumes, 

Are darker than the regions where they stray ; 
We, trembling, turn from scenes in wild dismay, 

Where death imagined in the distance looms : 
But, ere we know, a thought will o'er us steal, 

And hush us to the turmoil of the breast, 
To muse on those who long since passed away, 

And, heeding faithful memory's wild appeal, 
Are taught, that whatsoe'er befalls the best, 

Should scarce awake a dread in baser clay. 



(X Song, $lowev 

SOPHIE H. ELLIS. 

T'lylv plant a daisy in thy garden space, 

*~ I'll tell thee why, 

Because in storm or sunshine its sweet face 

Turns to the sky, 
So may thy faith, though wrapped in clouds of night, 

With steadfast gaze, 
Still turn to Him whose love shall surely light 

Life's darkest days. 
So shalt thou hope and comfort see 

In sorrow's hour, 
And this shall be a sign to thee, 

This daisy flower. 

105 

H 



^Scpfytfyafy's I>auglitcr 



FRED MYRON COLBY. 

T SAW the lithe young form superb with grace, 
Dancing along the sward with fairy feet 

Soft sandaled, gem ankleted, and as fleet 
As any mountain roe that won a race 

Upon the heights of Gilead crowned with wood. 
Dark-eyed she was, with radiant, earnest gaze, 
And her jet hair fell with slumbrous haze 

O'er the pearl smoothness of a neck that stood 
Like a white tower rising tall and fair 
Amid a host of other beauties rare. 

Her flowing cymar wrought of wondrous stuff, 

Clung to the fair form as if loving it; 

And her girdle gleamed as if bit by bit 
The metal had been polished from the rough. 

It seemed a gliding serpent round her waist, 
So brightly did its flexile links abide. 
Bare armed, unveiled, her fingers henna dyed 

Like Persian odalisque, so without haste, 
Glided the Hebrew maid across the lea 
Where flowers and grasses waved a mimic sea. 

The morning sun kissed lovingly her face 

Dusky with the hot glow of Southern skies; 

And 'neath her vest I saw her bosom rise 
Palpatant and tender, and e'en could trace 

The voluptuous curve of graceful limb, 
As in the languid measures of the dance 
She moved ecstatic like one in a trance, 

Or who had quaffed from joyous goblet's brim. 
Her happy voice kept tune with lulling charm 
To the music of the timbrel on her arm. 



106 



The palm-trees waved their branches o'er her head, 

Making soft shadows on the dewy green ; 

The birds hushed their song notes amongst the sheen 
Of emerald leaves, listening to the tread 

Of maiden's feet and clash of timbrel loud, 
And Mizpah's high towers looked proudly down 
Upon the scene and saw the banners blown 

Of the " warrior Gileadite " and his crowd 
Of soldiery returning from the fray 
Victorious, with all this proud display. 



rrttiton 

PERSIS E. DARROW. 

TM MORTAL poet! to earth's glory blind, 

That brighter glory which we hope to view 
In realms celestial just beyond the blue 
To thy blest vision, cleared and refined, 
In all its wondrous splendor forth hath shined. 
And sheol's horrors, which the damned pursue 
With torments such as never mortal knew, 
Thou sawest from the windows of thy mind. 
Before thy death thou passedst the abyss ; 
But after death with us thou still dost rest, 
And doubly art thou, matchless poet, blest ; 
For immortality in Heaven, I wis, 
Is not alone thy gift by God's behest ; 
Immortal life on earth thou shalt not miss. 



107 



Hural Isnnocertcc 

S. DYKK. 

DY a meadow daisy-tangled, 
In a cottage many-angled, 
Dwelt she there; 
Like a bee, a guileless rover 
Mid the summer scented clover, 
Trilling joyous sonnets over, 
Sweet and fair. 

On the spray that droops above her, 
Bird and blossom woo and love her, 

As she strays, 
Innocence in every feature; 
Gathering sweets, and growing sweeter, 
As the dallying sunbeams greet her 

With brighter rays. 

Every heart is filled with raptures, 
As her guileless sweetness captures, 

Blissful thrall ! 
Not an angel, yet angelic, 
For her heart to love is telic — 
Eden's pure and brightest relic 

Since the fall ! 

Happy maiden, may life's beaming 
Ever bring thee blissful dreaming 

Till the even; 
Then, may the radiance o'er thee pending 
When shall come the final ending, 
Brighter glow till all is blending 

Into Heaven ! 



sAMv\^v^tm,u!'' Us 




Ctutumn icavcs 

HARRIET WARNER RE QUA. 

PALLING, falling, 

Through the misty air from cloud-land, like bright 
blossoms under feet, 
'Mong the old, worn grasses lying, and the moisture of the 

street 
Falling from the heights of glory where the sunset splen- 
dors are 
Caught and held for days together in those brown arms 
witching snare. 

Falling, falling, 

Flames of crimson, royal-purple, ashen-gray and yellow- 
gold 

Soon to lie extinguished, sodden, pinioned to the frosty 
mould 

Like the love-lit hearts that ever true tho' unrequited prove 

So they burn themselves to ashes with the fire of their own 
love. 

Falling, falling, 

And they measure in their passing days and years forever 

fled, 
Once again the year grows mellow, soon to drop down sere 

and dead. 
Years, that bud and bloom and wither, are ye fairest when 

is passed 
All the heartache of your living to the passion Death at 

last? 

Falling, falling, 

Years of life, O do ye gather into crystal cells the gain 
From the clay wherein ye struggle, from the sunshine, from 

the rain ? 
When the frost-king smites with terror, striking where love's 

tendrils twine, 
Then do common things turn golden, prisoned dew-drops 

into wine? 

10'J 



cLir>o Sunsets 

LINDA SCHERMERHORN HIRNER. 
RECOMPENSE. 

A N August day draws slowly to its close. 
I gaze afar with listless, longing eyes, 
Half homesick for the far-off purple rise 
Of mountain peaks. The sun sinks to repose. 
A level flood of mellow brightness flows 

O'er level wheat fields. Gorgeous are the dyes 
That paint with splendor all the western skies. 
Yon somber cloud a blazing beacon grows ; 
The billowy wheat a golden ocean surges. 

I share with earth and heaven that tide of light — 
That nameless glory that doth still abide, 
To usher in and prelude twilight's dirges. 
O prairie land! thy recompense is right — 

Thy sunset fires no mountain wall doth hide! 

RETROSPECT. 

I mind me of a sunset, long ago, 

When life was in its May-time, like the year. 

A distant college town — to me how dear ! 
A quiet street where budding maples grow, 
A slight girl sitting on a door-step low, 

As half expecting some sweet sound to hear, 

Toward the maples turns her list'ning ear. 
Her cheeks reflect the sunset's rosy glow, 
Her eyes and lips her happy heart discover, 

As, waving high a branch of blossoms white, 
The flowers she loves ; he comes, her boyish lover. 

Silent they sit, nor note the less'ning light; 
For them, the sun is risen, the night is over, 

The world is all abloom with Eden's lost delight. 



110 



a Crill of Song, 

ADELAIDE STOUT. 

V\rHO hath not longed for morning; 

For morn whose silvery wings 
Alway to the lone watcher 

Something of healing brings. 
That wakes at least the voices 

We did not care to wake. 
With moan that thro' the darkness 

Our pain drawn lips would make. 

We counted off the hour strokes 

Almost till break of day, 
But morn came herald to us 

In an unlooked for way : 
There pulsed athro' the stillness, 

A sudden trill or song — 
So sweet, the time thereafter 

Of darkness seemed not long. 

So silvery sweet the bird notes 

They moved our soul to tears, 
Yet each was but a quaver, 

We'd heard such notes for years. 
But veined athro' the darkness 

They touched the finest string 
In our poor weary spirit ; 

Perhaps their heralding 

The morn lent half their sweetness — 

But tell me, O mine own, 
Is it not quite as likely 

Some sweet familiar tone, — 
Of child, or wife, or mother, 

May strike the key-note, when 
There's naught to tell of morning 

To our poor earthly ken? 

Ill 



Some voice whose silvery sweetness 

To earthly ears grew still, 
Before the heavenly dawning 

Our listening soul may trill : 
Some voice may fill the darkness 

With pulses of sweet song 
Thereafter till "the dawning;'' 

Perhaps 'twill not seem long! 

Then be thou very patient, 

O watcher for the light ! 
There may come quick notes trilling 

The very heart of night. 
Trill soft, O voice familiar, 

That most we long to hear ! 
Trill through the dark that lieth 

Between our soul and wheie 

The full day brings the chorus 

Of all the angel host, 
For in that song the sweetness 

Of thy trill may be lost: 
And any soul is lonely, 

And every soul hath fear, 
In that dread, awful stillness — 

"Before the dawn appear." 



112 



£?ere 23clotr> 

BY CY WAEMAN. 

\7 0U can talk about your honey- 
Suckle home beyond the sky ; 
Your sun-kissed over yonder, 

And your blooming by and by. 
Of the silver waves that warble 

Up against the golden shore, 
Of your heathery hereafter 

And you endless evermore — 
But if you've a lot of rapture 

And would like to let it go, 
Just sift a little sunshine 

In the shadows here below. 

Don't cluster up your kisses 

For my cold and clammy brow; 
This life is long and lonely, 

Come and let me feel them now. 
It's all right to lay up treasures 

In the realms where they won't rust, 
And to figure on the future 

And to try to put your trust 
In Him who made the Universe ; 

But it won't hurt, I know, 
To sift a little sunshine 

In the shadows her below. 




113 



GILBERT L. EBERHART. 

mARUKE fife! ah, how rife 

With the battle's stormy strife, 
Are thy sharp reverberations as they ripple into life ! 
And we hear far and near, 
Falling on the startled ear, 
All the piercing undulation of the music shrill and clear ! 

There's a sense, most intense, 

Of impatience and suspense, 

As the notes exulting, screaming, from thy throat are rattling 

hence ; 
And a thrill which no will, 
And no force or human skill, 
Like thy voice's ring of valor, can the soul with daring fill. 

And the peal, which we feel, 
Like a blade of keenest steel, 
Crashing through the brain that's loyal, cutting through the 

heart that's leal, 
Brings unrest to the breast, 
As we see in battle prest, 
All the brave and sturdy legions that thy call hath sent to 

rest. 

In thy tones, hear we groans, 

And the deep and dying moans, 

Of the heroes who, at Concord, and at Monmouth, left their 

bones ; 
And again, on the plain 
Of Antietam's iron rain, 
Hear thy voice defiant, swelling o'er the battle's wail of 

pain. 

114 



But the years dry our tears, 

And assuage all griefs and fears ; 

And thy blasts of war have vanished with our slaughtered 
heroes' cheers ; 

Yet on high swells thy cry, 

Like an anthem to the sky, 

While our serried hosts triumphant, in our dreams go march- 
ing by. 

And to God, from the sod, 

Which our fallen martyrs trod, 

Ever rise their blood as incense, ever inarch their souls 

abroad, 
Keeping time with the chime, 
And the symphony sublime 
Of the valiant tramp of freemen, and the glory of our clime. 



" acrostic" 

E. S. HALIN. 

C AFELY guide her walks through life, 
As duty calls 'mid toils and strife ; 
'Round her throw thy watchful care, 
And guide her feet from every snare ; 
Help her in the hour of need 
As on life's journey she shall speed ; 
Neither let the slander's tongue 
Nor poisoning words e'er do her wrong , 
O'er her keep thy kindly power, 
Nor lose her in that final hour. 



115 



S. Q. LAPIUS. 

ONG the ol' fence row, 'long the ol' fence row, 

How I love to wander slowly as the seasons come and 
go: 
Where the starlight blows are gleamin' from the briars leafy 

spray 
And the snowy elder blossoms form a fragrant milky way, 
When the winged-stirred air is laden with a thousand subtle 

scents, 
Then I love to wander slowly 'long the ol' rail fence. 

Oh, the ol' fence row ! Oh, the ol' fence row ! 

I can see it as I saw it in the misty long ago : 

With the milkweed pods a-burstin' an' the shoomake 

growin' red, 
With the sassairas a-sheddin' spicy odors overhead, 
With the tangled vines a-creepin' through the many cracks 

and rents 
An' the fuzzy catnip growin' 'long the ol' rail fence. 

'Long the ol' fence row, 'long the ol' fence row, 

Many winter days I've traveled in the freezin' ice an' snow! 

I have seen the faded flowers an' have heard the chillin' 

breeze 
As it sung of colder weather through the naked, leafless 

trees : 
But the sunny Maytime follered with its balmy recompense 
An' the path was green an' smilin' 'long the ol' rail fence. 

Oh, the ol' fence row ! Oh, the ol' fence row ! 

Seems that life is somethin' like it as we're trampin' to an' 

fro ; 
Fer the blossoms an' the brambles are a growin' side by 

side 
An' the daisy's overshadowed by the thistle in its pride, 
An' to keep the beaten pathway takes a deal of common 

sense, 
For the track of life's as crooked as an ol' rail fence ! 

116 



tEfyc *&at of tfye dolumbia 

DWIGHT WILLIAMS. 

/^VER the Bar ! into the spray, 

Fleet as a hound scenting his prey ; 
Into the swells! deeper they grow, 
Blue is the sea, foam white as snow ; 
Breezes how fresh, pennons are gay, 
Mountains fade out, lost in the gray 
Mist of the morn, far, far away ; 
Beautiful realms, out as we go, 

Over the Bar ! 

Paths of all flags, symbols of sway, 
Home of the wind's laughter and play ; 
Wings of white gulls — is it not so, 
Whiter wings still come winging low, 
Angels to watch swifter than they ? — 

Over the Bar ! 



Ctpplc Blossoms 

A PPLE blossoms ! crowns are they 
On the lovely brow of May ; 
Ask the South Wind how it brought 
All this beauty magic-wrought, 
Thus to change the brown and gray 
Of the landscape, on its way, 
To such fairy-like display ; 

Wings are ye to lift my thought, 

Apple blossoms ! 

Rapture in my heart holds sway, 
Seas of fragrance with their spray 
Deluge me, and I am caught 
In sweet tides of song untaught 
From the birds that haunt the gay 

iVpple blossoms. 
117 



Cupib is Clbroab Comtgfyt 

S. Q. LAPIUS. 

"T^LYING hoofs and jingling bells, 

On the air the music swells ; 
Frozen spume-flakes floating wide, 
From the steeds on either side ; 
Swaying sled with merry load 
Down the sheeted moonlit road 
Glides — an engine strong and swift — 
Through each deep opposing drift ; 
Beauty's cheeks are crimsoned bright- 
Cupid is abroad to-night ! 

Shouting boys and laughing girls, 
Sparkling eyes and shining curls, 
Foaming steeds and creaking sleighs, 
Ploughing through the snowy ways ; 
Merry jest and happy song 
Cheer the crowd that speeds along, 
By the farm-house, grim and dark, 
Where the watch-dog's wicked bark 
Makes the horses shy with fright : 
Cupid is abroad to-night ! 

Crescent moon and twinkling stars 
Strew the road with silver bars, 
Mingling with the dismal shade 
By the tossing tree tops made. 
Here doth naughty Cupid hide, 
Bow and quiver at his side, 
Waiting to discharge a dart 
At some blushing maiden's heart. 
See, the red lips change to white — 
Cupid is abroad to-night ! 
118 




Flying Jloofs and Jingling Bells. 



Slender form kept safe from harm 

By a strong encircling arm ; 

Love-lit eyes and ruby lips, 

Finger-tips meet finger-tips, 

Hands clasp's hand — and then — you know, 

Cupid leaps from out the snow, 

Finishes the work begun — 

Two hearts pierced instead of one. 

Hear him laugh, the merry sprite — 

Cupid is abroad to-night ! 



Hoon in ^loriba 

IDA WITHERS HARRISON. 

T TOW this sweet stillness rests my weary soul! 
Life's busy, pulsing tide has passed me by 
And left me for a while ; this tranquil sky 
Breathes blessed benizens ; the soothing roll 
Of ocean on the beach, sounds like the toll 

Of care and sorrow ; oft my languid eye 
Through aisles of many-pillared pines can spy 
Its silvery gleam — like some long wish for goal. 

And this at noon ! — when in our eager clime 

The streaming streets are iull of busy life, 
And toil, and care, and fret are in their prime. 
Sweet summer land ! t'is good to leave the strife 
Awhile behind, and bathe us in the balm 
Of thy kind air, and learn its heavenly calm. 



119 



Viovo £f)ank IJc CM ©ur <&ob 

CHARLES D. PLATT. 

XJOW thank ye all our God 

With hearts and hands and voices, 
Who doeth wondrous things 
For us and all the nations ; 
Who from our mother's arms 
And on through childhood's days 
His boundless love hath shown 
To us until this hour. 

O may this bounteous God 

Bless us through all our life-time; 

An ever joyful heart 

And precious peace give to us ; 

And keep us in His grace 

While countless ages roll ; 

And save us from all woe 

In this world and the next. 

Give honor, glory, praise 
To Father and to Son ; 
To Him who with them both 
Reigns on the heavenly throne ; 
To God, the Three-in-One, 
As when all things began, 
And is and shall remain, 
World without end, Amen. 



120 



Cfye 3mmortctl £?ymn 

E HARRIET HOWE. 

a JESUS, Lover of my soul," 

J Sang I softly o'er and o'er, 
"Let me to Thy bosom fly," 

I would part from Thee no more. 
I would in this haven rest, 

When the raging storm is. nigh; 
When all earthly help has failed, 
" Let me to Thy bosom fly." 

"Jesus, Lover" — O how sweet, 

Came the precious thought to me, 
Earthly love is all too fleet, 
Longs my soul for constancy. 
" Jesus, Lover," soft and low, 

O'er my soul the cadence fell ; 

Words and thoughts together flow, 

Nor can half its meaning tell. 

"Jesus, Lover," dearest friend, 

All my griefs to Thee I bring ; 
Thou wilt consolation send, 

And my longing heart shall sing, 
"Thou, O Christ, art all I want, 
More than all in Thee I find ; 
Raise the fallen, cheer the faint, 
Heal the sick and lead the blind.'' 



121 



"Jesus, Lover" — and the strain 

As it rose was all a prayer 
Over a remembered pain 

And the blight of something fair 
Yet in all my pain and woe 

For this vanished hope of mine, 
To the grave where Love lies low 

Comes the Comforter Divine. 

"Jesus, Lover" — nothing less 

Will my soul receive from Thee, 
Than Thy love and faithfulness, 
And my ceaseless cry shall be : 
" Thou of life the fountain art 
Freely let me take of Thee ; 
Spring Thou up within my heart, 
Rise to all Eternity." 



W. B. SEABROOK. 

Once, in a dream, 
I saw two spirits shine above the town, 

Whose marts ten thousand busy mortals thronged. 
One said, 
With eyes of utmost pity gazing down, 
" Behold, the dead." 



122 



mountain fjomc 

G. H. WALSER. 

LOVE my grand old mountain home,, 
I love its breath, I love it's looks, 
The bloom that smiles on it alone 
I love as do I love its brooks. 



I 



The rocks that rib its furrowed sides, 
I love them for their noble state, 

As well the rill which down it glides, 
And streams which murmur at its feet. 

The trees that shade its aged brow, 

Which sheltered me when but a youth, 

I loved them then as do I now, 
I love its gray and rocky roof. 

I love its moan in breezes high, 

I love it when the storm winds blow, 

I love from it to ken the sky, 

Which kisses meadlands far below. 

The oriole I love to hear, 

And see the roebuck on the bound ; 
I love the blythe and nimble deer, 

I love to hear the larum sound. 

The chase delights my heart as well, 
The bugle and the scented pack. 

As coursing through the copse and dell, 
As fly the hounds on heated track. 

The eagle plants her aerie high, 

To catch the glimpse of morning sun, 

Who paints its streamlets on the sky 
In golden shreds so deftly spun. 

I love it for itself alone, 

I love its glens, its gorges deep, 

I love my grand old mountain home, 
In sweet repose there let me sleep.- 

123 



(Evening Sfyaboros 

HETTIE A. MARTIN. 

""'•npIS a beautiful night, and with calm delight, 
** I gaze on the glorious scene ; 
The sun goes to rest 'neath the crimsoning west, 
And leaves me to ponder and dream. 

All glowing and bright, the landscape in sight, 

As far as my vision extends, 
Is tinged with the gleams of his glowing beams, 

'Ere behind the green hill he descends. 

The bright happy hours have fled to their bowers 

Till now the stern past has the day, 
. And twilight comes down over country and town, 
Wrapping each in its mantle of gray. 

_.And now as I gaze on the purpling haze, 
Of night dotted o'er with eacli star, 
Bright Venus, the queen of night's regal scene, 
Appears in the heavens afar. 

"To my entranced ear, as I wondering hear, 
Are wafted melodious strains, 
As angelic choirs with glittering lyres 
Were treading the glittering plains. 

Even so then I thought when life's work is wrought, 

And the sunset of life appears, 
'Twill be tinged with the gleams of hope's golden beams, 

To brighten the last of our years. 

When life's evening sky appears to our eve, 

And the mantle of twilight descends, 
If 'tis woven all o'er with good deeds done before, 

We will welcome it then as a friend. 

And, oh ! may the lyres of angelic choirs, 

Ring sweetly to cheer us the while, 
.As we cross the dark river forever and ever, 
To dwell in the light of God's smile. 

124 



Scattering Sargess 

M. E. H. EVERETT. 

T A /"HEN my good Prince comes riding by, 

And at his feet my head is bowed, 
His own fair hand, his dear white hand, 

Will scatter largess to the crowd. 
Not for my weak life's aims and ends, 

Not for my poor heart's hope, he cares, 
But for all hands that grope in night, 

And for all white lips' trembling prayers. 

And with his royal hand he flings 

No paltry moneys, as he rides, 
But coins of old, whose graven face 

A sacred sign of blessing hides ; 
Or pearls, that lift the dazzled eye 

To look if stars so whitely glow, 
Or rubies, like the deep drawn drops 

That from the heart of mercy flow. 

He looks not right, he looks not left, 

To see what hand his largess claims ; 
His eyes are wandering to a cross 

That marks God's pity for earth's shames. 
He scatters with no stinting hand, 

My Prince so bountiful and free, 
And though he notes not where I wait, 

Some of his treasure falls to me! 



125 



Tlcvcalcb 

JOHN M. STAHL. 

T A .THERE dwells the past? The pilgrim years, 
The friends and hopes that we have known, 
The timid smiles that swift have flown, 

Though swift, bedewed with bitter tears. 

Perchance on some great orb of space 

The years and hopes and friends again 
Live in the fleeting lives of men, 

The smiles and tears leave second trace. 

That we might know. The stricken heart 

Would fain explore the dim unknown, 
But it appalls, where they have flown, 

Our hearts grow sick before they start. 

A mist and darkness hover grim 

Around the border, fearful tones 

Are echoed, see we dead men's bones, 

And spectres, monstrous shapes and dim. 

Our friends are by, they wave farewell, 

We weep, we try to hold them here, 
They pass beyond the barrier drear, 

We listen and we hear their knell. 

We strain our mortal eyes to see 

The loved form, but we can not scan 
The shadowy spirit realm, to man 

The fiat is — it must not be. 

But One has promised — He who gave 

The past and present, and who holds 
The future in His hand, and moulds 

All things that are — the boon we crave : 

Our hopes rich fruited, smiles and friends 
To us be given, but our tears 
Be hid forever with the years — 

For our sad yearnings sweet amends. 

126 



Ctrtgclus Bells 

F. SCHREIBER. 

A T dawn of morn, 
When rosy hue 
And brilliant dew 

The world adorn, 
Sweet bells resound 
From towers around : 

Ave Maria. 

The lovely tune 
Thrills through the air 
So clear and fair 

Again at noon 
Vibrating high 
Up to the sky : 

Ave Maria. 

The day is spent, 
A last salute 
Steals o'er the mute, 

Enchanted bent 
Of hills and mounds 
In dormant sounds : 

Ave Maria. 

The sweet accord 

Recalls to mind 
The Angel's word, 

Which to mankind 
Brought joy and grace 
In every place. 

Ave Maria! 



127 



2TTan 1 s f?critagc 

WILLIAM S. LORD. 

A H ! who is he can say he's poor, bereft 
An heritage to make him rich ; or left 
Without a friendship of the better kind, 
Alone, the true and false of life to find? 

Myriad hosts of men have lived and died, 

Bequeathing to the world an eventide, 

The lessons of their daily lives, in deeds, 

In thoughts, in words ; and these have sprung as seeds. 

Each day, through all the ages past, 
Has added something to the last; 
With hundred tongues each year has rung, 
And thousand-voiced have centuries sung. 

Each word, each act, each thought sublime 
Has served a step, on which to climb 
To paths more near the lofty height 
Whence cometh knowledge and all light. 

The topmost of these paths are ours, 

To beautify with love and flowers. 

And unto us 'tis also given 

That we should bear with us toward Heaven 

A plant from meaner walks below, 

And nourish it that it may grow. 

For us were made the moon, the stars : 

Jupiter, Saturn, Venus, Mars, 

Are ours to wonder at, and see 

Reflected there the Deity. 

And in our quest of better things 

Oh, never may these truths take wings : 

The sick are ours to nurse, to heal — 

And theirs the joy our touch to feel ; 

The blind are ours to lead aright 

And kindly point the way to light ; 

And ours the weak to strongly aid 

Ere our own strength become decayed. 

128 



Yes, all of these are ours, 

And ours to do. 
When each has done his best 
He's summoned to his rest : 

This last the blessed gift — 

It into Heaven doth lift 
The weary one 

Among eternal flowers. 



£f]e ^tre (Srertabe 

J. B. SMILEY. 

/^\H, thou red and lengthy bottle 

Hanging on the wall, 
Thou art wondrous in thy workings 

If thou'lt work at all ! 
Canst thou quell the mighty raging 

And thy power assert 
O'er the fire's destructive fury, 

Oh, thou little squirt? 

Hast thou in thy little gizzard, 

Hidden from the light, 
Something that can give dyspepsia 

To the flames so bright? 
When the blaze hilarious dance, 

Very gay and pert, 
Canst thou make it sick and bilious, 

Thou small capsule squirt? 

Hast thou lots of cat-like temper 

Bottled up in you ? 
Wouldst thou like to spit and sizzle - 

See what thou canst do? 
Wouldst thou talk to fiery fairies 

Saucy, short and curt ? 
Wouldst thou fly right in their faces, 

Oh, thou little squirt? 



129 



$or X715 Dear Sake 

KATE B. SHERWOOD. 

HAVE gathered the dewy roses, 
The lily and columbine, 
The ivy, and iris, and myrtle, 

And pale sweet jessamine ; 
And out where some brave heart is lying 

In an unmarked lonely place, 
For his dear, dear sake, I will strew them, 

Who slumbers at Rocky Face. 

I woke when the odorous morning 

Came royally from the gloom, 
And I wept as my gay companions 

Went culling from bloom to bloom ; 
Ah, little they know of the sighing, 

And little of all the tears 
That stifle the heart that is asking 

The loves of its happy years ! 

And I thought of the last fond message 
He sent in his hopeful way : 
" But one little week, and I'm coming, 
My Queen of the joyous May." 
Now out in the wilds he is sleeping, 
The where I may never see. 

May of the Mays !— the gladdest 
And saddest of all to me! 

1 know not where they have laid him, 
My gallant, my brave, my own, — 

Out, out where the wild fern is growing, 
And the pines through the long years moan; 

And erst when the dead they have honored 
With flowers and praiseful song, 

I have lain in my darkened chamber 
And murmured the whole day long. 

130 



And now I have gathered the flowers ; 

And out where the lonely dove 
Is making lament I will strew them 

O'er some other woman's love; 
And may be in days that are coming, 

With sorrow her sweet eyes dim, 
Some other sad one will be strewing 

Mav's beauteous blossoms o'er him. 



Hearer ITty (Sob anb ©]ee 



CY WARMAN. 



G 



O make you a mark far above me, 
Near the top of the temple of fame ; 
Say that you'll endeavor to love me, 

When there I have written my name. 
Think not of the hearts who have fainted 

While striving for what I would be, 
For I shall be better for striving, 
And nearer my God and thee. 

No burden could be too heavy ; 

No task ever seem too great, 
No journey too long or too lonely; 

No hour too early or too late. 
For my matchless love would be thriving 

On the hope of the bliss to be, 
And I should be better for striving, 

And nearer my God and thee. 

All the long way from noontime till midnight, 
And back from the midnight to noon ; 

By the bright light of love I'd be toiling, 

And hoping the end would be soon. 
And when time of hope had bereft me, 

Tossed wildly on life's troubled sea, 
I should know that the struggle had left me 

Still nearer my God and thee. 



131 



Doubt 

MARGARET PRICE. 

yOUR words have touched my quiv'ring soul. 
No, no ! I still have self-control, 

So come not near. 
I do not say I yield at last, 
Beneath the spell your words have cast 

Upon me here. 

I say but this : (Ah, yes, I know 
You found it out long, long ago,) 

You rule my life. 
No, no ! Stay there. A mighty task 
'Tis to refuse you what you ask : 

To be your wife. 

My throbbing heart longs to deceive 
My calmer mind. Could I believe 

Your passion true, 
The splendor of these saddened eyes 
Would shame the tint of yonder sky's 

Deep azure hue. 

I doubt your love. It may be true, 
But how can I be sure that you 

Love well at last, 
When brighter eyes than these of mine 
Have seen in yours such ardor shine, 

In days now past. 

My comrade, it were best for us, 
If you had never spoken thus 

Of love to me. 
For we can never now go back 
Along the broad, well-beaten track 

Of friendship free. 
132 



And in exchange you offer this — 
Your fickle love — a transient bliss 

Of lips and eyes. 
Stand where you are ! E'en one caress 
Would crush me low. My soul's distress 

For mercy cries. 

Respect my doubt, and go your way. 
You cannot win me 'neath your sway 

By prayer or sigh. 
I could not trust you, tho' you swore 
By all the loves you've loved before — 

And now good-by. 



3c Crue 

F. E. M'FADDEN. 

TN the springtime of life, when the queen of the morning, 

Bathes all her bright blossoms in glittering dew, 
And strews them about thee, life's pathway adorning, 
Be true, be true. 

When life's restless tide bears thee out o'er its ocean, 

Keep love's beacon star ever proudly in view ; 

Fondly kneel at the shrine of the pure heart's devotion, 
Be true, be true. 

In the evening of life, when the beauty declining, 

The star of thy being slopes adown the deep blue, 
And death's withered leaves with life's blossoms are turning, 
Be true, be true. 



133 



llrtbcr tfyc €ear>cs 

JEAN KATE LUDLUM. 

" T 1 THY search for flowers any more? " she said, 
Turning aside to leave the quiet wood ; 
Yet all undaunted her companion stood, 
A shaft of sunlight falling on her head. 

" For me no flowers ever bloom !" she cried ; 
" Always and ever have I looked in vain ! 
Only the dull brown leaves like leaves of pain 
Drifting around my feet from every side ! '' 
" Nay, dear, " the other answered tenderly, 
Standing undaunted in the shadowy place ; 
" Under the leaves some flowers there may be, 
Or some shy buds that promise all things sweet. " 

And kneeling, with a smile upon her face, 
Uncovered blossoms at her very feet ! 






k 6< 




134 



-fc 




— -WSffe 



Kobin, Swcettyavt 

CAROLINE D. SWAN. 

TS he nae comin', O Robin ! my Robin ! 

Is he nae comin' frae over the sea? 
Lanely the north wind is sighin' an' sobbin'; 
Are ye nae comin', dear Robin, to me? 

Yonder the sunlight the heather is tintin', 
Simmer's fair ghaist i' the fa' o' the year ; 

O'er the pale cloud-wrack I see it a-glintin' ! 
Robin, puir Robin ! Oh, wad he were here ! 

Weary the spring-time shone out o' the snow-wreath ; 

Weary the simmer wi' Robin awa' ; 
Sorrow a-littin' o'er bracken an' furre-heath, 

Croonin' a sang wi' nae music at a' ! 

What is it, gudeman ? The fishers are comin' ? 

The Norther is bringin' them in frae the sea? — 
Warm is the wind, though sae chill an' benumbin', 

Warm is the wind that brings Robin to me ! 

Sair was our partin', but blithe be our meetin' ! 

Will he still praise me an' ca' me sae fair? 
Dinna ye tell him, Jean, I hae been greetin' ! 

Is the blue ribbon a' richt i' my hair ? 

Oh, he is comin', my Robin ! my Robin ! 

Redd up the ingle wi' kindliest cheer ! 
Gie o'er thy wark, Jean, thy spindle an' bobbin' ! 

Bleeze up the fire, for Robin is here ! 

Oh! for a welcome to Robin, my laddie! 

Welcome the warmest, I loe him sae dear ! 
He wad nae mair than a merry heart, wad he ? 

Gleesome eneuch sin' his ainsel' is here. 



135 



Sunshine on tf?c Cratl 

CAPT. JACK CRAWFORD, "THE POET SCOUT." 

T NEVER like to see a man a ras'lin' with the dumps, 
■*■ 'Cause in the game o' life he doesn't alius ketch the 

trumps, 
But I kin alius catton to the free an' easy cuss, 
That takes his dose an' thanks the Lord it isn't any wuss. 
Thar' ain't no use o' kickin' an' a swearin' at yer luck, 
You can't correct the trouble more'n you kin drowned a 

duck — 
Remember when beneath the load your sufferin' head is 

bowed, 
That God'll sprinkle sunshine in the trail of every cloud. 

If you should see a fellow-man with trouble's flag unfurled, 
An' lookin' like he didn't have a friend in all the world, 
Go up an' slap him on the back an' holler " How d' ye 

do?'' 
An' grab his hand so warm he'll know he has a friend in 

you ; 
Then ax 'im wat's a-hurtin' 'im, an' laugh his cares away, 
An' tell 'im that the darkest night is jest afore the day. 
Don't talk in grave-yard palaver, but speak it right out loud. 
That God'll sprinkle sunshine in the trail of every cloud. 

This world at best is but a hash of pleasure an' of pain, 
Some days are bright an' sunny, an' some are sloshed with 

rain, 
An' that's jest how it orter be, fur w'en the clouds roll by, 
We'll know jest how to 'predate the bright an' smilin' sky, 
To learn to take it as it. comes, an' don't sweat at the pores, 
Because the Lord's opinion doesn't coincide with yours, 
An' allers keep rememberin' w'en cares your path enshroud, 
That God has lots o' sunshine to spill behind the cloud. 



136 



an aione 

MRS. E. A. WEED. 

A YE, I walk in the multitude, 
"^ And yet alone ; 
I list the music's strain, 

How sad the tone. 
The gleam of lights, the scent of flowers are there, 
But my soul is away in realms of air. 

I list a deep toned manly voice, 

With passion ring; 
The form is noble, proud, 

As any king. 
But the vail is torn from the past away, 
And I see the ghost of a dear, dead day. 

The lights grow dim, the music's strain 

Has died away ; 
The proud face bending low, 

Seems gone for aye. 
And like a spirit pursued and driven, 
Crying in vain to God and Heaven, 

On, on, I speed nor pause ; to where 

My heart asleep, 
With he whom I once loved, 

Lies buried deep ; 
And the moonbeams shine on his resting place, 
And the tears they trickle adown my face. 

A voice, ah yes, my soul returns 

From spirit land ; 
I smile, and give to him 

A trembling hand. 
Will I wed perhaps, and learn to be gay, 
But my soul at times will wander away, 

When I walk in the multitude, 

Yet all alone ; 
When my dead love only, 

Is all my own — 
Then the lights will fade, and the music die, 
And the sad heart will weep, and so will I. 

137 
J 



£fyy IDill be Done 

C. A. SCHALER. 

PHY will be done, with slow drawn word, 
She formed the stammering- plea. 
It was an infant's earliest prayer 

Learned at a mother's knee. 
Unconsciously she lisped the words, 

No import yet their meaning bore 
To her soul fair as an opening dream, 

On life's untrodden shore. 
What port secure as a mother's breast 

O'er which she fondly clung, 
To lisp in life's uncertain dawn, 

Thy will be done. 

Thy will be done, 'tis uttered now, 

By a maiden young in years ; 
Untried by the pangs of hopeless toil, 

Nor racked by countless fears. 
She stands midway upon the slope 

Above the blue clouds meet, 
Her womanhood, like them a dream, 

Childhood, a stream, still at her feet. 
Her's is the zone of tropic flowers, 

Unmindful as she holds her course, 
What on some lips might be a prayer, 

On other lips a curse. 
She walks through days but just begun, 

And carelessly lets fall the prayer, 
Thy will be done. 

Thy will be done, head bowed on hands. 

And spirit bent with care, 
The words fall from a woman's lips, 

With every word a prayer. 
Upon a storm-lashed shore she kneels, 

Within life's restless haven ; 

138 



Deprived of every human tie, 

Bereft of every stay, but heaven. 
'Mid all this strife, this scene most drear, 

With life's course nearly run, 
Yet full of trust, her plea still is, 

Thy will be done. 

Thy will be done, O God, no more, 
Through billowy surf, o'er rocky shore, 
Folded her hands lie on her breast, 
Peacefully she sleeps as a child at rest. 
At last she has earned this moment's repose, 
Struggling o'er life's rugged road, 
Her step never faltered, her faith never failed, 
For mercy and good deeds were ever her load. 
Then let the storm break where mad waters run, 
The winds in their rage still murmur the prayer, 
Thy will be done. 



Ct]c 21!oon[igf]t 

SARAH KNOWLES BOLTON. 

V\7"HAT is the moonlight to me 

An infinite rest ; 
The subtle and sweet melody 
Of song unexpressed. 

What is the moonlight to me? 

The peace of a river ; 
Companionship of a sea 

That surges forever. 

What is the moonlight to me? 

Satisfaction completest ; 
A precious and dear memory 

Of all that is sweetest. 

What is the moonlight to me? 

A tryst and a union ; 
A promise for futurity, 

A blissful communion. 

139 



like Vr IMa 

S. <i. LAPIUS. 

COMEHOW things jest sort o' seem 

Like a misty, hazy dream 
Sence my little gal is gone — 
Her my heart was set upon. 
Yeller cnrls was on her head — 
Golden ringlets, yon'd a said ; 
Bine as indigo her eyes — 
You'd compared 'em to the skies ; 
Pinkish nose, an' right beneath 
Rows o' white an' shiny teeth ; 
Dimpled cheeks an' — well, you see 
Like 'er ma, an' not like me ! 

I can see her plain to-day 
Jest as when she went away ; 
See the smiles that run an' race 
One another 'cross 'er face, 
Up an' down an' everywhere, 
Hidin' in the dimples there. 
When we ust to take a walk 
How that little gal 'ud talk 
'Bout the blossoms on the trees, 
'Bout the birds an' fiow'rs and bees; 
She liked pnrty things you see — 
Like 'er ma, an' not like me. 

I was alluz big an' rough, 
Sort o' made o' knotty stuff, 
But my wife its mighty plain 
Has a some 'at smoother grain ; 
Fer that little gal o' mine 
Was o' timber straight an' fine; 

140 



An' her manners was polite, 
'Cause her ma had learnt 'er right. 
"Yes, ma'am," an' "Yes, sir," when 
She was talkin' to the men ; 
She was smart as she could be — 
Like 'er ma, an' not like me. 

But my little gal is gone, 
Her I ust to dote upon ; 
An' the world looks rather dim 
Sence she went to live with Him. 
Seems as if the sun don't shine, 
An' tne posies droop an' pine ; 
Days are long an' nights are drear 
'Cause the little thing aint here; 
No one peeks from 'hind the door, 
There's no playthings on the floor; 
Life dont have no charm, you see 
Hardly, fer her ma an' me! 




<. M 






141 



G £Ef}unfcor=storm in tfye Palley 

A. S. CONDON. 

"DRIGHT woke the morn to greet the coming day ; 
In God's great peace the slumbering valley lay ; 
Along the east the Dawn's dear augel went, 
And clouds were roses in the Orient. 
From out the darkling covert of the wood, 
On flashing wing swept forth the choral brood ; 
Through spangled meadow set in emerald field — 
So young in bloom its charms but half revealed — 
The low, sweet murmur of a gentle stream 
Interpreted in song Night's mystic dream ; 
And waving banks were beauty's lashes, lent 
To fringe 'th inverted dome of firmament; 
Bending the dew-wet ferns the brook beside, 
Laughed at their faces in the curling tide. 
Then up the golden ladder of the morn 
Came the new sun, and, lo, the day was born ! 
Was e'er since time an earthly scene like this, — 
So well befit the young June's tender kiss ? 
But ere the sun his dizzy zenith pass'd, 
Hell's dunnest gloom was o'er the valley cast. 
I saw the embattled armies in the air, 
The splendid onset, and the marvelous glare 
Of dead sky when clouds of the furious north 
Lifted to let the murky squadrons forth , 
Sheltered I stood where snows eternal are 
To view this awful pageantry of war. 
Slow spreading out a fateful nimbus hand 
Hid the red sun and veiled dissolving land ; 
And just below a tawny cloud appear'd, 
Trailing, what seemed, a faded shaggy beard ; 
A whisper all the nervous poplars stirr'd 
With breath so low th' attentive ear scarce heard. 
And now the wind's wild fury sweep the height, 
Till brave old trees bow low before its might ; 
A weird calm falls, but through the vacant air 
Strange pulses beat the tall cliffs, brown and bare ; 

14^ 



Again the moan loud rises to a wail, 

And swimming skies surge on the swelling gale ; 

All living things the open plains forsook, 

While fitful gusts the leaning mountains shook; 

Peace fled the now infuriated sky, 

And cloud battalions swiftly moved on high. 

Deployed, and massed the hoary granite hight, 

And denser grew noon's premature night ; 

Down through a gorge the boiling vapors roll, 

Drove on by winds that curl them like a scroll; 

Across the plain, up from the gulf below, 

The storm-born centaurs charge the mountain's brow ; 

And now the blazing clouds together come, 

The air is still, save heaven's tumultuous drum ; 

The cliffs, sonorous, answer long and loud, 

While Odin's clanging hammer smites the cloud ; 

Still living lightnings leap from peak to peak, 

Still clouds wide rent with deep-mouthed thunders speak; 

Across the valley swirls a lurid glow, 

From eagle's erie to the earth below ; 

The mountain rims exhale mephetic breath, 

And seemingly wall in a realm of death. 

So passed an hour of elements at war, 

When through the clouds shone Phcebus' fiery car ; 

The earth and air distracted with the strife 

Declared a truce, and Death again was Life ; 

High hung in heaven an iridescent bow 

That lit with joy the wreck-strewn earth below ; 

Tear-beaded trees their glad libations pour, 

Hope chid the storm now passing swiftly o'er. 



143 



Dormitcttn 

.MARY GRANT O'SHERIDAN. 

'THE violets blossomed neath my feet in Spring, 

And Summer gave her rarest rose to me. 
The blue-bird fanned the lily with its wing 

And set a cloud of prisoned perfume free ; 
And softly on my weary senses fell 
The sweetness from the swaying lily-bell. 
The moon-beams kissed the white syringa flowers, 

Oh ecstacy of tenderness and love, 
Oh bliss of being! In those mystic hours 
I seemed like one who ever lies and dreams, 
And hears the wavelets of celestial streams 
Wash by the thirsty shores of sin and death, 
And leels upon his naked brow the breath 

Of cooling breezes coming from above, 
Laden with harmony from singing spheres, 
That chant God's praises through His endless years. 



CIic (5oob=ntgllt 

GILBERT L. EBERHART. 

THE moon was hanging in a cloudles midnight sky; 

The stars smiled on the roses with a calm delight; — 
I took her jeweled hand in mine to say good-night, 
And rose to go. She said 'twas early, with a sigh, 
And softly wound about my neck, her milk-white arms ; 
She breathed in love upon my lips, her balmy breath, 
And drew my fainting heart out with her kisses' charms 
While on her breast I died a strange, delicious death. 
Her eyes met mine, and in my soul's voluptuous pain, 
I trod the rounds of bliss, as kings their royal palaces, 
While in my ears she poured her love, as o'er the plain, 
The flowers spill their musk from out their crimson chalices. 
We little reckt how fast or slow the moments flew, 
Enraptured so were we by Love's bright, golden glory : 
I know I said good-night, and she adieu ; 
But when, or how, is now our own sweet, secret story. 

144 



tEfye Segenb of tfye Kainboxr* 

F. W. BRADLEY. 

T7AIR Hope lay hid in the sea ; 

A thousand fathoms deep lay she. 
And the little sea-shells at her feet 
Had lulled her to sleep with their murmurs sweet. 
And while she was sleeping the grasses grew 

And twined her long fingers among her hair, 
And whispered in glee, " See our treasure new ! 

We'll keep her fast bound — such a plaything rare!" 

But still fast asleep lay she. 

The mermaids came in haste to see. 

They mocked at her girdle, many-hued, 

They scorned all her fairness with whispers rude. 

But all thro' the moments each red-lipped shell 

Was filling her sense with its slumbrous song, 
And ne'er in her dreams did their voices tell 

That the sun was away and the world gone wrong. 

For above her the Storm-King raged. 
Fierce battle with the waves he waged ; 
The winds from their ocean cave set free 
And laughed with a will at their wicked glee. 
He lured the lost ships to a rocky bed, 

He drove the wild waters upon the shore, 
Till the people, affrighted, cried ''Hope is dead — 

She will come for our saving, oh, nevermore ! '' 

Then Hope awakened from sleep. 
The little waves that guard the deep 
Had fled from the storm above in fear, 
And whispered their tale in her drowsy ear. 
" The storm is abroad and the Winds are free ! 

'Tis time to awake and away ! " she cried. 
"No longer I'm dreaming beneath the sea; 

With haste in his haunts shall the tyrant hide ! '' 

145 



She tried to arise, but alas ! 

Her hair was tangled 'mid the grass. 

In vain did her tears for freedom sue ; 

The grasses held closer their plaything new. 

She drew from her girdle a dagger keen 

And all in a moment the clustered rings 
Were heaped at her feet in their golden sheen 

And Hope was away on her shining wings. 

The Winds were silent in fear. 
The Storm-King fled as she drew near. 
Her girdle she flung across the sky 
To tell the people that Hope was nigh. 
But down in the sea lay her yellow hair, 

And as thro' the waters its shining sped, 
The watchers on shore saw its radiance rare ; 

" There is gold at the rainbow's end ! " they said. 



tEfye Diolimst 

R. LOVEMAN. 

The master deftly drew his bow, 
Across the violin's lips, and lo, 

To liquid language clear and free, 
Leape 1 the imprisoned melody. 



146 



ionging 



MARY C. RYAN. 



TN this dark vale of life, my soul yearns for peace ; 

For a haven, where storms of this cold world will cease, 
Where groans of the dying forever are o'er, 
And sin waves her ensigns of triumph no more. 



For bubbles of joy, I've toiled long in vain, 
But reap for my guerdon a harvest of pain, 
As pale drooping hopes I bedew with my tears, 
Aud leave them to perish o'er shadowed by fears. 



By earth's stagnant pools, my spirit thirsts ever, 
I languish to drink from life's shining river, 
My sad wounded heart in its waters to lave 
And bury my sorrows beneath its bright wave. 



On its beautiful shore I long to repose, 
Where thorns are not hid in the leaves of the rose 
And sweet songs of sirens, are never more heard, 
To tempt me to stray from the love of my Lord. 



147 



Hod IJcars (greetings 

ANNIE LAURIE BARNES. 

A NOTHER glad new year has come 
^^ Since last I sent you greeting. 
Time rings its changes quickly round, 
Our moments fast are fleeting. 
Twelve months have drifted into space, 
With all its glad, sad measures, 
Some full of low funereal dirge, 
And some replete with pleasures. 
Old Father Time in passing by 
Has left his marks behind him ; 
To some he gave the bitter dregs, 
Whilst others did not mind him. 
Some have kept their laughing eyes, 
Still lightly smile at sorrow ; 
Others look to Heaven for strength 
To bear them through to-morrow. 
We know not how to tune our lives, 
So checquered our existence ; 
We let our life-boat glide along, 
We scarce think of resistance. 
If we attempt to anchor fast 
To some bright, sweet illusion, 
Old Father Time slips in his scythe 
And shows us its conclusion. 
Thus, dear old friends, we look behind 
Into the year just ended, 
And find we have not lived our lives 
Just as we then intended. 
So let us fix this glad new year, 
Our eyes and hearts on Heaven ; 
Perhaps before twelve months have flown 
Our earth ties will be riven. 



148 



Cft (Evening Cime 

MRS. C. M. L. WRIGHT. 

T TOW sweet would it be could we linger 

O'er the volume of life that is past, 
With a feeling of satisfied comfort 
And without one regret at the last. 

But alas ! when the leaves are turned over 
We find on each page as we look, 

Some glaring mistake, or a blunder, 
We fain would blot out of life's book. 

E'en the good we sought to accomplish, 
With motives the purest and best, 

Is so blurred and disfigured with errors, 
We scarce can trace that from the rest. 

The world will find much to censure ; 

Men are quick to condemn, and spare not, 
The bad is seldom lost sight of, 

The good is o'erlooked and forgot. 

Have we tried to be humble and Christ-like, 
Unselfish in things great and small, 

With a heart free from envy or malice? 
God knows it; He judgeth us all. 

When the day is shading to twilight, 

And our evening sun sinking from sight, 

If He writes our name with the faithful, 
At evening: time it shall be lio-ht. 



149 



Some Day 

E. HARRIET HOWE. 

COME day I shall be lying cold and still, 

My quiet hands be folded on my breast, 
No mere to do the bidding of my will, 

No more the conscious morn disturb my rest. 
Some day my work will all be laid aside, 

Ended, though yet unfinished, it will seem to me ; 
How many times I failed, how hard I tried, 

That my life's work might more than stubble be. 

Some day my noisy boys will gently tread, 

No ringing shout of "Mother" reach my ear, 
Lord, save them from the dangers that I dread, 

When Thou hast taken me past all my fear. 
Some day my weary feet will cease to climb 

The uphill path that was so rough to me ; 
Though well-nigh slipping, yet how sweet the time, 

I leaned my weakness by the way on Thee ! 

Some day the one beloved, whose gentle touch 

Would send the thrilling currents to my heart, 
Caress and vain regrets will lavish overmuch, 

And tears that with mine might have flowed, will start 
Dear eyes, grown careless to express their love — 

I've searched so oft in vain, bring now their store, 
Nor glance responsive, nor sealed eyelids move ; 

What would have been so precious, I shall need no more. 

To-day great burdens lie upon my heart; 

One who had sorrows left this message sweet, 
Bear ye another's burdens," but the heavy part 

Himself doth carry, yet my wayworn feet 
Hath faltered, and I sorely need, to-day, 

Some words of comfort from a pilgrim friend, 
Fulfilling His sweet will, as by the way 

We walk to gether ; maybe near the end. 

Dear friends, to-day is oifrs, another dawn may shine, 
Cloudless and fair, with no declining sun, 

No need of any ministry nor aid of thine, 
In that blest day. The work of life is done. 

150 



tEtmligty 

BOWBNA M. COOK. 

A S shadows creep o'er moon and sky, 
So o'er our spirits peace is spread, 
Till deepening into summer night, 
By hallowed influence we are led. 

'Tis twilight, and it brings the past, 
The scenes of youth, of joy and love ; 

•Call not the hour of twilight dark; 

It means two lights— one from above. 

Still deeper shades the twilight brings 

Before the vision clear can be ; 
Although the mists of youth seem bright 

Each eve brings older truth to me. 

Make haste then, twilight's thoughtful hour; 

And in my heart thy spirit move, 
"That all thy sweet attendance brings 

May in my web of life be wove. 



151 



G. Summer ITtgfyt 

HETTIE A. MARTIN. 

T_JOW calm, how still, how bright, 

Falls night with darkening wing; 
No artist can its beauties paint, 
Its praise no poets sing. 

No gilded sunlight falls 

Upon the quivering leaves, 
But in its stead the "Queen of Night" 

Her silver radiance weaves. 

The wood dove folds her wings, 

Upon her downy breast, 
And in the quiet meadow nook 

The skylark sinks to rest. 

The fire-flies with golden lamps 

Shine as a u sea of glass,'' 
And plaintively sounds the cricket's song 

From out the dewy grass. 



152 



Cfyc ictst 3ourncy 

MRS. E. A. WEED. 

T 17" HEN I shall lay me down and die. How oft 
I wonder when that day, that hour will be, 
When all alone I'll trembling stand and gaze 
Across Eternity's vast, sullen sea. 

Oh ! think you then that I shall be afraid, 
And, like a craven, meet and fear my fate? 

Or, will the memory of " might have been," 
Make me cry out, "Oh! that it is too late?" 

Will all the hopes I've cherished mock me then, 
And, like grim phantoms, stand upon the shore, 

And whisper in my ear that hollow word, 
That haunts the Godforsaken "Nevermore?" 

Will I recoil in terror from the waves 
That break in sudden fury at my feet ? 

Or shrink from that pale messenger in fear, 

Who comes to guide my bark o'er waters deep? 

I pray that I may be prepared to meet 

That alien craft that sails the unknown sea, 

Whose darksome waters touch the shores of earth, 
And ceaseless roll unto Eternity. 

Then may I scatter all the blooms of earth 
Upon the beach, as tokens for each friend, 

And gaily smile, as if I surely meant 

Some day to make my journey back again. 

And trust the boatman pale to guide me safe, 
Nor let my tiny bark by storms be driven ; 

And safely steer me past the port of Hell, 
To that strange place we know by name of Heaven. 



153 

K 



Cfyosc (Eyes of 23roum 

C. W. KYLE. 

TN all the world there is but one 

Pair of eyes of brown 
That are more beauteous than the sun 

When it goes down. 
They shine at morn, at noon, at night 

Always for me 
With love's enchanting trustful light 

Of harmony. 

Beside those eyes the starbeams shine 

But languid, dull ; 
Their light to me is all divine — 

Most wonderful ! 
And when their curtains softly fall 

So coyly down, 
I love them more than life, than all — 

Those eyes of brown. 

When crimson blushes upward sweep 

O'er lips and face, 
And slowly from her fair cheeks creep 

With matchless grace, 
Were I possessed of all the earth — 

A royal crown ! 
I'd give it all to match their worth — 

Those eyes of brown. 

In them sweet summer ever shines 

And fair flowers bloom ; 
There Pleasure stores her richest mines- 

In them is room 
For every thought of peace and love 

My life to crown, 
With joys surpassing heaven's above — 

Those eyes of brown. 



154 



Kcgret 

FANNIE MAY GIBBES. 

COME words fall softly on the ear, 

As chiming vesper bells ; 
And others sink with leaden weights 

Of tolling fun'ral knells. 
The "might have been" o'er many a heart, 

A sacred cross is set; 
But oh ! how much of human life, 

Is wiapped in one "Regret !" 

Regret, that little good hath marked, 

Our years forever fled. 
Regret, for graves within the heart, 

Where vanished hopes lie dead. 
Regret, that sunset's glories die, 

Ere shades of twilight fall ; 
Regret, that winter's breath hath chilled 

The vine beside the wall. 

Regret that one unguarded word, 

May rankle in the breast, 
And sadly send from out our life, 

The friend who loved us best. 
Think not upon life's bitter tone, 

For lips once proudly set, 
May echo now thro' mem'ry's halls, 

"Regret, regret, regret !" 

Regret that in all Edens here, 

Tho' fields are e'er so green, 

Across each dewy spangled way, 

The serpent's trail is seen. 
155 



Oh ! when the sun of life on earth, 

In crimson glory sets, 
Thank God, the twilight's purple robes, 

Enfold no sad regrets. 
For there, no twilight ever falls, 

And there, no sun e'er sets, 
For God's own face doth light that place, 

That land of No Regrets. 



tDoman's 3nftuence 

W. D. TL'RNLEY. (CLARKSVILLE, TENN.) 

TF woman's blest influence, like our bright sun, 

Should sink from sight and leave the sky all dark, 
No star would light the course that man must run, 
Not e'en a glow-worm cheer him by its spark. 

But Night her cloudy mists would hang on high, 
And drape the world in gloom, the deep lament 

Of Nature's groaning breast would shake the sky, 
Despair would banish hope, nor man repent. 



156 



<Dk <Dlb Sribge 

SARAH A. JENCKES. 

T MUST take my leave of the bridge to-night, 
* The bridge that has been the scene 
Of childhood's play, and of youthful tryst 
When the moonlight shone serene. 

On shadowy forms that lingered awhile, 

Unheeding the jeweled spray 
That crowned their vows with a wreath of pearl 

As fleeting and frail as they. 

Over the bridge rushed the boys from school, 

With ringing shout and laugh, 
To the chestnut tree, where the last one now 

Stands leaning on his staff. 

A student from quiet college hall 

To the gay saloon rode o'er; 
At night from the bar to the bridge returned, 

And met with his class no more 

'Neath the willows beside the pier reclined 

A fisher with hook and line, 
Where in after years, a fisher of men, 
He pondered the Book divine. 

The bridegroom passed, and the fair young bride 

With tearful yet trusting eyes, 
To look on the grandeur of Alpine scenes, 

The smile of Italian skies. 

The old bridge echoed the martial tread 

When a soldier band went o'er, 
But though it wait long as the mother-heart, 

It will kiss their feet no more. 



157 



Crushing its carpet of crimson leaves, 

Came homeward the harvest wain, 
And children sought for the scattered fruit, 

And doves for the falling grain. 

And often the dark funereal train 

Slowly and sadly passed, 
To lay on earth's bosom the precious seed 

That will surely rise at last. 

I must bid farewell to the bridge to-night 

Where waves of memory flow ; 
There's another bridge that my soul must pass 

To the land where I would go. 

Its timbers are laid in the riven Rock, 

For so has the Maker planned ; 
Its arches most strong, and high, and wide, 

For by it two worlds are spanned. 

With a living faith in the living Rock, 

I must cross the surging tide, 
And find in green pastures the blood-washed flock 

For which the Shepherd died. 

I shall see His glory who for our sake 

Bore railing, and scourge, and rod, 
And made of His own most bitter cross 

The bridge between us and God. 



158 



(Eugenic 



WILLIAM BYRD CHISHOLM. 



\\T HO would not weep with thee? 

What breast so cold as not to spare one throb 
For this imperial mourner? — every throb 
That wails its speechless requiem o'er the lost 
An answering throb in the world's heart hath crossed ; 
And thus we weep with thee ? 

Who would not weep with thee? 
Thou Niobe of these, the latter days ; 
Too sacred for the world's intrusive gaze 
Be this thy sorrow ; yet with reverent hand 
We'd strew the tomb, and with bared brow would stand 

Beside to weep with thee. 

Who would not weep with thee? 
O'er the dashed chalice of thy darling pride, 
The lone hope dearer than the world beside ; 
To thy despairing heart — the star that threw 
O'er thy sad fate its one resplendent hue : 

For him we weep with thee ! 

Who would not weep with thee? 
But tears are vain ; e'en though in every tongue 
Thy sorrows were bewailed ; and though among 
The pomp of courts thy grief should throw its pall 
O'er the high carnival, yet vain were all 

Earth's sympathy with thee! 

Who would not weep with thee? 
Or rather, dashing back the futile tear, 
Point thy dim eyes beyond the fading sphere 
Of this thy grief and glory to the heart 
That throbs above — there is thy better part ; 

Thus would we comfort thee ! 



159 



Cfye (Engineer's funeral 

MRS. M. K. COLBURN. 

Yes, wife, the service was splendid, such as one seldom 

sees ; 
Think of preachin' a funeral sermon, at night, out under 

the trees. 
But the train that's to bear poor Jim to his long home, 

far away, 
In order to make connections, must pull out at break o' 

day. 

So the comp'ny thought 'twould be nice, after the sun 

went down, 
To have a twilight service, in front of the house, on the 

lawn. 
An', wife, though my years number a'most four score, 
I never yet saw anything half so solemn before. 

"Abide With Me," sang the choir in tones so sweet an' soft, 
While the low, solemn notes of the organ seemed to bear 

me up aloft. 
Never before in my life did I seem so close to God, 
As when the preacher said " Let us pray," an' we knelt 

on the velvet sod. 

From my inmost soul I prayed that the Lord would be 

true an' kind 
To the widow an' two little girls that Jim has left-behind. 
Then we arose, an' takin' his text the preacher said, 
" Words are too feeble to express the respect we have for 

the dead. 

u A man who loved an' feared his God, an' though dangers 

compassed 'round 
Never shirked a duty, but at his post was always found. 
An' though it's not for us to know the cause of this last 

sad ride, 
Yet we know a hero each day he lived, an' like a hero he 

died. 

160 



" With his hand firmly grasping the lever he went thro' the 

bridge to his death, 
An' I fancy a prayer for his loved ones went out with his 

dyin' breath. 
A prayer that He who has promised to be the widow an' 

orphan's friend 
Would not fail to watch over his darlings an' keep them 

to the end." 

Then, wife, when " Nearer, My God, to Thee," went up 

through the trees, soft an' low, 
Why, it seemed that earth had passed away an' heaven 

was here below, 
An' as the beautiful moon arose, an' threw her gleam 

aslant the sod, 
We bade good night to his lonely ones an' left Jim alone 

with his God. 




161 



life's l]cstorbays 

D. E. MILLARD. 

IFE'S yesterdays ! what meaning in those words ! 
They thrill the heart with sorrow or delight — 
As vanished scenes return like swift-winged birds, 
And bring us sunshine or a rayless night. 

We measure days as prophets measured years, 
Each year a day, with night to intervene 

And break the earth-bound spell of joys and tears, 
With hours of grateful rest that come between. 

Our yesterdays ! A dream ! They sped so fast 

We scarce could think what priceless blessings came 

To gladden them, till all their hours were passed, 
And only memory brought them back again. 

Soon mortal life will be one yesterday ; 

For, when to-morrow comes, 'twill be its close, 
And we shall end its bright or darkened way 

In dreary death, or calm and sweet repose. 

Which shall it be ? With us it rests to tell ; 

This life is what we make it, and its end 
Will bring unmeasured peace if we live well ; 

Unrest and pain if we to wrong shall bend. 



162 



Carol of tfye Seasons 

W. D. TOWNSEND. 

The waking, 

The waking 
Of spring-time, glad morning ! 
The ice-bonds are sundered, 

The brooklet is free ; 
The making, 

The making 
Of Nature's adorning 
In which all her handmaids agree* 
The grasses are springing 
The swelling buds bringing 
Forth raiment of verdure, 

To clothe the bare trees ; 
The cold winds abating, 
The birds gladly mating, 
Are caroling songs on the breeze- 
It's coming, 

It's coming 
The verdant hills over, 
The Summer is coming 

With herald and song ; 
The humming, 

The humming 
Of bees in the clover 
Will ris~ from the meadow ere long. 
The zephyrs are sighing 
To fair flowers, replying 
In language of odors 
That laden the air; 
The blossoms are swelling 
With fruit stores and telling 
The bounty of nature held there. 

The glisten, 

The glisten 
Of rills in the azure, 

163 



The robing of mountain 

In Autumn's rich dyes ; 
And listen, 

And listen ! 
In hearty good measure 
The woodland drops nutty supplies. 
The leafs tints are mellow, 
The fields golden yellow, 
The garners are loaded 

With storage of grain ; 
The harvest-home chorus 
Is swelling before us, 
And nature joins in the refrain. 

The glitter, 

The glitter 
Of Winter's frost splendor, 
The fleecy flakes falling 

With drifting winds blow, 
Though bitter, 

Though bitter 
The wind-gust, the fender 
Gives comforting warmth with its glow, 
The sleigh-bells now jingle 
The sleighing songs mingle 
The voices of sleighers 
With music of bells ; 
Come, deck now with holly, 
Hang mistletoe jolly, 
For timid love's secret it tells. 



164 






2Tto%r 

E. A. WINGAED. 

/^FT I find a mournful pleasure, not unmixed with grief 
^^^ and pain, 

Thinking of the happy moments, that can never come again ; 
Moments which, like angel faces, peep from out the days 

of yore, 
Yet elude our anxious claspings with the cry of "nevermore.'' 

But the golden days of childhood frame no brighter scene 
than this, 

When my mother's lips were pressing on my brow her lov- 
ing kiss ; 

And I wondered when she taught me, "Now I lay me down 
to sleep,'' 

If He were away in Heaven, how the Lord my soul would 
keep ! 

Ah! how well do I remember everything within her room, 

Table, basket, chair and bureau, e'en the dear old field-straw 

broom — 
Socks her busy finger's darning, clothes her tired hands must 

mend, 
Always working, smiling, loving, till the weary day would 

end. 

In that room she gently taught us, gave us all her loving 

care 
And when evening shadows gathered often would she kneel 

in prayer ; 
And I sometimes strangely fancy, now that she has gone 

away, 
In that room I feel her presence, mother must be here to-day. 

Sickness came, long years of suffering, slowly did she fade 

away, 
And her face grew fairer, purer, more unearthly every day ; 
Till at last, one Sabbath morning, smiling like a child at 

rest, 
Did she die, and angels bore her to the mansions of the blest. 

165 



Mother-love so rich and tender! how its worth is multiplied 
By the days of loss and sadness that have come since mother 

died ; 
For the very joy and sweetness which her presence gave our 

home, 
Only makes the loss more bitter now that we are left alone. 

Though, I know that she is happy in that sunny land above, 
Oh ! how gladly would I purchase just one day of mother's 

love, 
Just one smile of sweet affection like the one she always 

wore, 
Just one gentle word of kindness, just one kiss, if nothing 

more. 

Yet we all may one day meet her in a home more bright 
than this, 

And our grief, and loss, and sadness, be exchanged for per- 
fect bliss — 

Next to meeting Christ our Savior, higher joy cannot be 
giv'n, 

Than to find that in those mansions will be mother, home 
and Heav'n. 



166 



©ur £?opes 

H. F. O'BEVINE. 

T17B nurse our hopes as mothers do 

Their infants at the breast, 
For they the children of our dreams — 
Were born to be caressed. 

And as they grow we long to learn 

Fulfillment of their youth, 
And laugh to see them loiter round 

The blossom fields of truth. 

Devoted parents while we watch 

Their fast maturing powers, 
The buoyant step — the bright'ning eye 

The love of life is ours. 

Not so when sorrow seasons come. 
And smiles and tears are vain 

To lure those lovely truant ones 
Back to the heart again. 

Ah ! then the light of life dies out, 

The singing birds grow sad, 
And neither hill, nor vale, nor sky 

Can ever make us glad. 

They came to us as children come 

To bless our lonely lives. 
And blest is he, who hath one hope 

That all the rest survives 

For ah ! the saddest gifts are they, 

That God did ever send, 
When hopes that we have nourished long 

Desert us in the end. 
167 



Ctn clutumn (Evening 

E. H. DIEHL. 

\ A 7 HEN the evening sun declining, 

Casts his last celestial rays 
O'er the hills and dales in autumn 
As though forests were ablaze ; 
Then I love to view fair nature — 
Her enchanting scenes to praise 

It is true the flowers have faded 
By the frost's cold icy breath ; 
And the many plants, once verdant, 
Have assumed the form of death ; 
Yet 'mid all these scenes and changes, 
Not all is dreariness or death. 

For the leaves, with magic beauty, 
That bedeck the shrubs and trees, 
Are arrayed in gorgeous colors, 
As they rustle in the breeze, 
And present most vivid pictures 
That can animate and please. 

Quickly view the golden sunshine, 
While it glitters far and near; 
Soon its source will have departed 
To light another hemisphere ; 
Then the stars will sparkle brightly, 
Or perhaps the moon appear. 

Soon the moaning winds and zephyrs 

Will disturb the twilight air, 

And discourse unwritten music 

Through the forests everywhere, 

While Orion and attendants 

Look down upon us bright and fair. 

Some adore stern Winter's season, 
With his stormy chills and snow ; 
Others Spring, with plants and flowers 
Which profusely bloom and grow ; 
But summer's fruits and autumn scenes 
Choicest gifts to all bestow. 
168 



3ack 5 r05 ^ ^ c Ctrtist 

S. Q. LAPIUS. 

TACK FROST, the little artistic elf, 

J Took palette and brush from off the shelf; 

And softly whispered, "a beautiful scene 

I'm going to fashion, in silver sheen." 

So stretching his nimble legs he sped 

Away to the laughing river's bed ; 

His magic brush swept once or twice 

And the river was covered with crystal ice. 

The rocky hill, from base to dome, 
He painted in silver monochrome ; 
And high on the summit, where hemlocks grow, 
He whitened its surface with powdered snow. 
The brook that leaped from the moss-grown ledge 
He changed to a curtain, whose jeweled edge 
Swept over the ferns on the rock beneath, 
And held them locked in an icy sheath. 

Then over the meadows he swiftly flew, 
And silvered the grasses with frozen dew. 
And all night long the merry elf 
Was softly singing to himself, 
"This picture I'm painting will last, I know, 
For the paints I'm using are ice and snow; 
And the North Wind brought this brush to me, 
From his home in the frozen polar sea." 

The fairy picture faded away 
In the ardent rays of the sun next day, 
But little Jack Frost — persistent sprite — 
Will paint it again some other night. 
Down from the North in the midnight's hush 
He'll silently come with palette and brush 
And then by the light of the morn you'll see 
A picture like silver filigree. 

169 



CMIlaying 



SAMMIE W. CROSBY. 

^PENDERLY kissed and caressed by the sun, 

Pulsing with passion the green hills are glowing ; 
Down through the valleys the rivulets run, 
Teasingly telling their tales of the wooing. 

Goldenly rare 

Shimmers the air, 
Rapturous measures the gay winds are playing, 

Life's merriest mood 

Fills dingle and wood, 
As we go a-Maying, a-Maying. 

Over the hillsides the boys and the girls 

Rollicking wild, with each other run races ; 
Winsomely flutter the flossy curls 

Framing the joy-dimpled laughter-lit faces. 
" Eyebrights are out!" 
Gaily they shout. 
" Liverwort blossoms their charms are displaying, 
And spring's blue-eyed pets, 
Wee, sweet violets. 
As we go a-Maying, a-Maying." 

Turning the dead leaves that lie at their feet, 

Happy at heart, go the maiden and lover ; 
His shall be coinage of love-kisses sweet, 
Who shall the dainty arbutus discover ; 

Shyly it lies 

Hid from the eyes, 
Never a hint of its presence conveying 

Save the fragrance rare 

Pervading the air 
As we go a-Maying, a-Maying. 

Home from the hillsides when morning is spent 

Joyous, with blossoms the children come laden ; 
Home from the hillsides, aglow with content, 

170 



Troth plighted wander the lover and maiden. 

Goldenly gleam 

Upland and stream, 
Nature herself with fresh charms is arraying, 

And glowing life fills 

Each heart with warm thrills, 
As we come from Maying, a-Maying. 

£or tfye Sodc of §a6y IlTay 



T 



PEARL, RIVERS. 

HE reign of Winter is over, 
And I see Lord March to-day, 
With a magic compass in his hands, 
Surveying all the rightful lands, 
Of his love, the Lady May. 

Gladly I watch him running 

His golden line this way; 
Of north and south, and east and west, 
He will claim the fairest and the best 

In the name of Lady May. 

Quickly each line he measures ; 

Then dropping the magic chart, 
All for love of the Lady May, 
He toils by night and he toils by day, 

Proudly and light of heart. 

From her court she sent him, saying: 
"Go till my land for ine, 
And when I come, if I find it fair, 
Budding and blossoming everywhere, 
My bridegroom you shall be.'' 

All for love of his lady, 

His strong white arm disbands 
Each wild-eyed tribe and lawless clan 
Of weeds and brambles that o'erran 
And tented upon her lands. 

Briars and burrs and thistles, 
He clears them all away; 
171 



They pierce and sting, but he does not feel, 
His feet are brass, and his hands are steel, 
For the love of Lady May. 

Up on the rugged hilltops, 

Down in the plains below, 
His royal plow, the sunshine, now 
He guides, with flushed and heated brow, 

Carefully and slow. 

"Hard little hearts grow tender, 
And throb for my Lady fair'' — 
And he gives the earth the earthly kind, 
But the winged seed he gives to the wind 
To sow in the fields of air. 

The ground must be smooth and mellow, 

Or hard little hearts will cheat, 
And over h'S Lady's wide domain 
He runs with his shining harrow, Rain, 
Till he feels them stir and beat. 

" Ho, March !" I call from my window, 
'' You are wearing grace away ; 
You are growing old, you are growing gruff, 
Your back is bent and your face is rough, 
For the love of Lady May!" 

" Willingly I grow double — 
Willingly I grow gray. 
There is nothing that I would not bear, 
There is nothing that I would not dare 
For the love of Lady May?" 

" But what of the young Lord April 
You left at the court with May? 
He will kiss her cheek, he will kiss her hand, 
While your lordship tills the lady's land 
Full a thousand leagues away." 

" Ho, Poet !" he answers sharply, 
" 'Tis a bold, false thing you say. 
Though the young Lord April press his suit, 
I will stake my life against your lute, 
On the truth of Lady May." 

172 



Ctt>e Zllarta 

S. M. BENT. 

r "pHE sun goes down behind the hills of Spain, 

The twilight softly falls o'er vale and plain,— 
Falls lightly on the city's busy scene, 
The vineyard's clusters ripe and leaves of green, 
The shaded paths, the garden's tinted glow, 
The silver river's peaceful, lingering flow, — 
On all the scented orange groves. 
And scenes where smiling Beauty roves ; 
The growing crescent moon comes slowly creeping 
Across the blue Castilian mountains sleeping 
In Nature's mystic hush, the mellow beams 
And shadows falling light as childhood's dreams 
In mingled weirdness scarce denned, 
As tired day, with care-worn mind. 
Sinks down to welcome rest and glad reprieve, 
Encircled by the cradling arms of eve. 

The silvery tones of the convent bell, 
As soft it rings the "Ave Maria" chime, 

With murmuring rise and fall and swell, 
And music sweeter than the poet's rhyme, 

Borne on the perfume laden breeze, 
Break through the faintly rustling trees. 
The student casts aside his book, 
And kneels with meek and rev'rent look ; 
The dancer tripping time with flying feet 
To th' tinkling castinet, forgets to beat 
The witching notes, and humbly kneels to pray 
Beside the muleteer in his trappings gay; 
The dark-eyed maid, who but a moment gone 
Coyed with the cavalier from gay Leon, 
Now drives the thoughts of love away, 
And seeks her bower's screen to pray ; 
Still'd is the song of the contrabandista, 
That floated through the mountain's vista ; 
All worldly words are humbly hushed, 

As closing day and evening blend, 

173 



By night's dark pinions softly brushed, 

And holier, purer thoughts ascend. 
On th' sacred, peaceful wings of prayer, 
That upward speed through the balmy air 
To Heaven's Virgin Queen, who at the throne 
Of God's eternal grace, with loving tone, 
And earnest, trusting strain, 
Pleads for the land of Spain. 



Questions 

EDWARD C. DOWNING. 

Al 7"HY do we evermore regret 

The way that we have lived with those 

Who will not come again, and yet 

Day after day again forget 
To treat the living better? Knows 
There not each one of us some woes 

That presss our souls and fill our hearts 
Too full for utterance or tears, 

Sometimes when memory starts 
To wander back along the years ? 
Why do we not redeem the time 

That we have lost and try to make 
Our lives and others' more a rhyme, 

Both for our own and Jesus' sake ? 



174 



Dawn at Sake IfTaggiore 



REV A. JONES. 



FAINT streaks of dawn appear once more, 
Yet stars shine with their wonted light ; 
The Pleiads, and Orion bright, 
Dear memories of the past restore, 
While gazing heavenward, space and time, 
The deep, wide sea, the recent years, 
Freighted with measures large of tears, 
All vanish, in the thought sublime, 

That friends, who, underneath these stars, 
Have grasped me with their loving hands, 
In bygone days, and far off lands, 
Now greet me through my prison bars. 
What though I do not see them near, 
I feel within the sacred flame, 
And know true love abides the same, 
In every age, and every sphere. 

The dawn advancing, now reveals 

A lonely creature, half awake — 

A gently-murmuring mountain-lake, 

O'er whose fair bosom, softly steals 

Aurora's beauty from above. 

As guards, the mountains stand around, 

Turret, and dome, with radiance crowned, 

As if they blushed from conscious love. 

Not Raphael, nor Angelo 

Could sketch these wonders which I see ! 

The tints, the forms, the harmony, 

Of all above, around, below. 

The beautv that invests these hills, 

The varied hues of tress and flowers. 

The villas, half concealed in bowers, 

The spray of fountains, and of rills 

175 



Would sting all human art with shame, 
And with the sense of sore defeat, — 
The copy small, and incomplete, 
The finish coarse, the coloring tame. 
God builds His Heavens immensely high, 
And, with a grandeur all divine, 
So tiny flowers, and crystals shine 
With rays to draw a seraph's eye. 

The veils, upon our senses shroud, 
The forces wrapt in smallest things ; 
Else might the rush of insect wings, 
Appall us, like the thunder loud 
The man who gazed on Sinae's fire, 
Yet asked to see the face of Him 
Before whom dazzling suns are dim, 
Knew not how bold was his desire. 

This mountain-cinctured gem of glory, 
Its image on my soul has set ; 
Nor come the words with false regret, 
Farewell, farewell, dear Lake Maggiore. 



176 



o 



tEfyc (Bemt of Wine 

N. K. GEIGGS. 

THE rosy wine is blushing, 



Like a ruby kissed with light ; 
O the ringing - , thrilling music 

Makes the dreary hours grow bright ; 
O the dizzy, dreamy dancing 

True and loving hearts inthrall ; 
O the artful, luring sirens 

Seem as angels, in the ball ; — 
Ah ! the sirens and the dancing 

And the music and the wine 
Are the spirits of the revel, 

That the foolish deem divine ; 
But the wanton smiles of pleasure, 

Soon will vanish, chased by sneers, 
And the fragile cup of gladness, 

Soon be running o'er with tears. 

O the blushing wine is glowing, 

Like the morning's face, so fair ; 
O the lovely, costly mirrors 

Seem as limpid as the air ; 
O the pleasing, princely paintings 

Seem as ev'ning's sunlit smile ; 
O the winning, wooing billiards 

Seem as saying, "pause a while;" — 
Ah ! the billiards and the paintings 

And the mirrors and the wine 
Are so charming that the careless 

To their magic oft resign ; 
But that stately hall of splendor — 

So enchanting, so sublime — 
Is a reeking hot-house, only, 

Filled with springing shoots of crime. 

O the glowing wine is glaring, 

Like the dragon eyes of hate ; 

O the reckless, frenzied gambler, 
Is defying God and fate ; 
177 



O the brainless, brutal brawler 

Is inviting pain and shame ; 
O the worthless, sotted beggar 

Is profaning manhood's name ; — ■ 
Ah ! the beggar and the brawler 

And the gambler and the wine 
Are companions worthy, only, 

Those attending Pluto's shrine ; 
But the drunkard — witched to madness, 

By some strangely potent spell — 
Gropes forever in their darkness, 

Sinks forever in their hell. 

O the glaring wine is burning, 

Like the wasting fires of woe ; 
O the deadly, gleaming dagger 

Gives the cruel, mud'rous blow ; 
O the dismal, darksome dungeon 

Is awakened by no prayer ; 
O the awful, fearful scaffold 

Tells of hopeless, black despair; — 
Ah ! the scaffold and the dungeon 

And the dagger and the wine 
Are the ripened fruits of satan ; — 

Aye, thou demon, they are thine! — 
But, poor drunkard — child of weakness — 

Yours the anguish not alone. 
For your kinsmen, too, must harvest 

From the sorrows you have grown. 



ITS 



Disconsolate 



GILBERT E. EBERHART. 

A LIv through the restless, gloomy night 

I hear old ocean's sullen roar, — 
I hear him roll in sobs of pain 

Along the rough and rugged shore. 
I hear, and weep, alas, to think, 

Low down within his waves so deep 
Is held from me a lovely form 

The angels all have prayed to keep. 

I cry, " Why roll, O heartless sea, 

In heavy sobs along the shore, 
As if to mock the grief I feel 

For one thou never wilt restore ? " 
The sea replies: ''Oh foolish man! 

The form thou thinkest my waves enfold, 
Is safe within the pearly gates, 

And walk the eternal streets of gold.'' 

I sleep, and dream, I see again, 
Her smile as in the days of yore ; 

I clasp her dimpled hand in mine, and wake 
To press her to my heart — no more. 




179 



(DY Zobadicv pcttd? 

S. Q. LAPIUS. 

[ JES kind o' feel so lonesome that I don't know what 
* to do, 

When I think about them days we used to spend 
A hoein' out tobacker in th' clearin' — me an' you — 
An' a wishin' that the day was at an end, 
For the dewdrops was a sparklin' on the beeches' tender 

leaves 
As we started out a workin' in th' morn ; 
An' th' noonday sun was sendin' down a shower o' burnin' 

sheaves, 
When we heard the welcome-soundin' dinner-horn ; 
An' th' shadders 'round us gathered in a sort o' ghostly 

batch, 
'Fore we started home from workin' in that ol' tobacker 

patch. 

With th' hoein' and the toppin' all the summer days we 

spent, 
While the fleecy clouds was floatin' overhead ; 
An' we sometimes stopped to lazy, with the treetops for a 

tent, 
An' we stretched out with the mosses for a bed. 
Then we'd talk about th' city, with its glitter an' its noise, 
An' we'd wonder if th' time 'ud ever be 
When we'd be livin' in it an' partakin' of its joys, 
An' be as rich as Croesus — you an' me 
But the fox-tail grass was growin' 'twixt th' rows as thick as 

thatch, 
So we had to keep a hoein' in that ol' tobacker patch. 

When th' sultry days was over an' th' fall had come at last, 
An' th' strippin' an' th' stringin' was at hand, 
When th' maple leaves was fallin" an' a rustlin' to the blast, 
An' th' corn was golden-yeller in th' land ; 
Then we'd start th' roarin' fires in th' yawniu', mud-dobbed 
flues, 

180 



That peeked out 'neath th' dry-house made o' logs ; 

An' we'd sit there in the night-time, watch th' firelight's 

changin' hues, 
An' listen to th' barkin' o' th' dogs. 
Then you'd tell o' bears an' taggers, how they'd fight an' 

growl an' scratch. 
Golly, how it made me shiver in that ol' tobacker patch. 

I'm feelin' mighty lonesome, as I look aroun' to-day, 

For I see th' change that's taken place since then. 

All th' hills is brown an' faded, for th' woods is cleared 

away ; 
You an' me has changed from ragged boys to men ; 
You are livin' in th' city that we ust to dream about ; 
I am still a-dwellin' here upon th' place ; 
But my form is bent an' feeble, which was once so straight 

an' stout, 
An' there's most a thousand wrinkles on my face. 
You have made a mint o' money ; I, perhaps, have been 

your match ; 
But we both enjoyed life better in that ol' tobacker patch. 



181 



3rt Clie ^all 

ALICE B. MYLENE. 

PHE old autumnal stillness holds the wood, 

Thin mist of autumn makes the day a dream 
And country sounds fall faint, half understood 

And half unheeded, as to sick men seem 
The voices of their friends when death is near, 
And earth grows vaguer to the tired ear. 

At soft gray dawns and softer evening ends 
The air is echoless and dull with dews ; 

And leaves hang loose, and whosoever wends 

His way through woods is 'ware of altered hues 

And alien tints ; and oft with hallow sound 

The chestnut husks fall rattling to the ground. 

Now, haply on some sunless afternoon, 

When brooding winds are whispering to the leaves, 
Shrill twittered half-notes fill the air, and soon 

From farm-house thatch and cozy cottage eaves 
The circling swallows call their eager brood 
And straight fly South, by unseen summers wooed. 

A certain sadness claims these autumn days — 

A sadness sweeter to the poet's heart 
Than all the full-fed joys and lavish rays 

Of riper suns ; old wounds, old woes depart ; 
Life calls a truce, and Nature seems to keep 
Herself a-hush to watch the world asleep. 



182 



•:■': 



Ct]c IDinbs arc Blotting 

E. L. MACOMB BRISTOL. 

T^HE South wind is blowing, blowing 

Thro' the brake, and thro' the glen 
The moon is peeping with silver rim ; 
What is the shadow, what is it then? 
Out in the fields where wheat is growing, 
Oh ! She stands and waits for him. 

The East wind is blowing, blowing 
Thro' the brake, and thro' the glen 
The day is dying in twilight dim; 
What the echo, what is it then ? 
Over fields where they have been mowing, 
And her tears are all for him. 

The West wind is blowing, blowing 
Thro' the brake, and thro' the glen 
The trees are naked with vesture thin ; 
Why the wailing, what is it then ? 
The leaves are whirling, falling, going, 
Hunting, seeking, calling him. 

The North wind is blowing, blowing, 
Thro' the brake, and thro' the glen 
The earth is cold and white and grim ; 
What is the shadow, what is it then ? 
Snow is falling and a mound is showing, 
She is sleeping; but what of him? 

^ >Sc >]c >|; >£ >!< 

The South wind is blowing, blowing 
Thro' the brake, and thro' the glen 
The hanging moon, like a broken rim, 
Shines o'er the meadows as it did then ; 
The wheat is sweet and grasses growing, 
Another is waiting under the stars for him. 



183 



Cfye Brook Ctcross tf^e Hoa5 

EDWIN RALPH COLLINS. 

TVTO bridge confines its tiny flood, 

No wall or archway bowed 
Has e'er marked ont the rippling way, 
Of the brook across the road. 

It winds among the aider roots, 
Then glides beside the hedge, 

Creeps through the old and broken wall 
And gains the highway's edge. 

Then broadens to a modest pool 
In calm and lake-like mode ; 

Then taking courage, starts afresh 
And flows across the road. 

The weary traveler, jaded horse, 

The oxen with their load, 
Each stop in turn to quench their thirst 

From the brook across the road. 

You never seek its bank in vain, 

Its springs are never dry, 
It's always sparkling, fresh and cool, 

And always flowing by. 

The world would be far brighter 

If love and kindness flowed 
With the freedom and the bounty, 

Of the brook across the road. 



]S4 



tEfye ^Trailing Ctrbutus 

ANNE GARDNER HALE. 

TNDER the last year's damp, dead leaves, 
Through the long winter dark and cold, 
Safe as the swallows beneath the eaves 

Or young lambs penned in their quiet fold. 

Sweet Arbutus her verdure kept, 

And nursed her buds for the opening spring ; 
While flaunting tulips and king-cups slept, 

Dreaming of grandeur the June should bring. 

Softly the breezes stirred the leaves, 
Gently the sunbeams kissed the buds, 

And swift through the tissues that Nature weaves 
A roseate flush their beauty floods. 

Dingy and dull the brown leaves lie, 
Bright as Aurora, with new-found life 

The young May flowerets to every eye 
Lift their blossoms in fragrance rife. 

Under the withered hopes of years, 

Oft times, thus, may the soul hold fast 

The germ of a beautiful faith that cheers 
The waiting world with its joy at last ! 




185 

M 



CL Sctbbatf] in tfyc dountry 

W. W. RUN Y AN. 

A/ON babbling stream salutes a silent mill; 

Yon dreamy clouds bestride a drowsy gale ; 
The dingy forge stands mute on yonder hill 
Nor chides swart labor resting in the vale. 

The plow in half-turned furrow halts afield ; 

Aslant the yoke rests by yon ancient lime ; 
The meads a clover scented fragrance yield, 

Fit balm and incense for this hallowed time. 

Yon shafts memorial glow in light serene ; 

Yon spires far-gleaming point the eye to Heaven ; 
A chastened gladness broods o'er all the scene, 

And hails the dawn most consecrate of seven. 

All, all is calm, save, toying with the breeze, 
Yon tow'ring poplars nod in regal state. 

All, all is still, save by the barn's rude frieze 
The chatting martins hold a shrill debate. 

The morn is peace. But hark ! the pealing bells ! 

They thrill the breast, and charm the startled air. 
Awake, my harp, and echo soft the knells 

That bid my footsteps to the house of prayer. 

Each belfry rays a sounding aureole — 
Melodious flood, majestic yet subdued, 

Aloft the surging circles mount, and roll 
O'er hill and dell and dark primeval wood. 

With potent charm the far resounding chime 
Arrests the giddy whirl of thoughtless mirth ; 

And lifts the soul from transitory time 

And empty joyance of the sin-cursed earth. 

Rest now, ye worn and weary sons of toil, 

From irksome tasks but not from grateful praise. 

From throbbing temples bathe earth's dust and moil 
And to God's altar wend your pilgrim ways. 

186 



Let choirs artistic link their studied strains 
To organ peals in grand cathedrals heard ; 

Not sacred less, in Nature's leafy fanes, 
The native carol of each tuneful bird. 

In desert solitudes, afar and lone, 

Their matin notes the warblers wake amain, 

And praise our mighty Maker as their own, 
Ere sluggish man can drone his slow refrain. 

Our country's safeguard, and our homes' defense, 
The nurse of faith, the school of sacred lore, 

Great boon divine, the Sabbath doth dispense 
To toilers rest and solace to the poor. 

Oh, might our Sabbath pour its gracious light 
On Congo's plains and India's golden isles ; 

From pagan shrines chase every bloody rite, 

And gild the globe with Heaven's benignest smiles. 

>i< % >fc :£ %. >|< 

Now, evening shadows lengthen in the glade, 

And now they climb the mountain's stately dome. 

Ah, when shall dawn that Sabbath without shade, 
Whose welcome bells shall call our footsteps home ? 

Haste, halcyon morning of that day of peace 

When toils shall end ; when sorrows, tears, alarms, 

And all the retinue of sin shall cease, 

And Eden paint again her vanished charms. 

Prophetic ages then shall roll sublime, 
And joy be worship in that fair abode, 

Immortal hosts shall quaff that healthful clime, 
And sun themselves beneath the smile of God. 

Oh dawn, high Sabbath day of Paradise ! 

When saints its boundless beauties shall explore, 
And in its bow'rs, with rapture-lightened eyes, 

Forever wander, wonder, gaze, adore. 



187 



after tf]c Sail 

GILBERT L. EBERIIART. 

NOW sit alone ; the guests have departed ; 
The viol's sweet music no longer I hear ; 
And slowly the laugh of the throng, merry hearted, 
In shadowy cadence, dies away on my ear. 

But there's one whose soft tones and eyes' tender glances, 
Still echo and thrill through my soul and my heart, 

As when, in the whirl of the wildering dances, 

She sighed that so soon we should be sundered apart. 

I see the red roses she daintily fingered, 
I smell the carnations that fell at her feet, 

When close by my side, in her beauty she lingered, 
And whispered the words that I dare not repeat. 

sj; 5(c sfs * * * * 

I wake from my dream in the keenest of anguish, 
My heart is now bursting with bitter regret ; 

Alone hath she left me, in sorrow to languish — 

I have learned, when too late, she's a heartless coquette. 

Alas, that such creatures should be so unreal ! — 
The soul's keenest pleasures so soon fade away ! — 

That the purest, the best, the most perfect ideal, 
Like buds that are fairest, be first to decay. 




188 



dope's Jler»erie 

W. H. FEEBEE. 

T'M wond'ring if my love is true, 

And if she still loves me? 
I long once more her face to view 

Which now I cannot see. 
Though far from her I must remain, 

I know she loves me best ; 
I long to see her once again 

And fold her to my breast. 

How swiftly days have passed away ! 

Some trees their leaves have cast — 
Some wear the robes of Autumn gay, 

Since I beheld her last. 
The golden leaves which still remain, 

Seem lonely now like me, 
And long to meet their mates again 

Which lie beneath the tree. 

The birds fly southward on their way, 

They dread the winter storm, 
For with their mates they love to stay, 

In climates mild and warm. 
Their mates will ever constant be, 

Where'er they choose to roam ; 
Each seems to say, " I'll go with thee 

And with thee make my home." 

Unlike the man, the bird I know 

Will never leave his mate, 
But constant he, through weal and woe, 

What'ere may be their fate. 
He need not grieve o'er broken vows, 

Or doubt his loved one's word, 
But singing gaily from the boughs, 

His song of love is heard. 



189 



©jc 21To6crn *Bacd}aute 



ROSAT.IK M. .ION AS. 



CHE is crowned with deep rubies — not vine leaves ; 

She is gowned in dull gold; her bright hair 
Flows down to her feet in soft splendor — 
Feet shod in French slippers — not bare ! 



She reclines, not on hills — where the mad vine 
Climbs high to be trod by those feet ; 

But she lies there — white, languorous, lovely — 
On satins as perfumed and sweet ! 

She holds the gold weight of the goblet 

In clasping caress of her hand ; 
Her eyes glow like bright, poison berries ; 

Her eyes feed the flames they have fanned ! 

Poor Bacchus ! you are but a mortal ; 

The red wine has made heavy your brain ; 
And your love — be she goddess, or devil — 

With a kiss, locks your shackles again ! 



100 



Cf}e (£otr>boy 



N. K. GRIGGS. 

\\ TITH eyes that were blazing, 
But now that are glazing, 
In bar-room, "The Bruin'' — that rattlesnake den 

A cow-boy is lying, 

And silent, is dying, 
Surrounded by careless, yet resolute men. 

Chorus : 

So, sing of the rover, 

Whose wand'rings are over, 
And who without even a tremor of dread, 

Lies down on the prairie, 

Where natuie makes merry, 
And spears of the cactus are guarding his bed. 

Tho' father and mother, 

And even one other, 
Had begged him to tarry, they pleaded in vain, 

For wild as a ranger, 

And mocking at danger, 
He cared but to gallop, a Knight of the Plain. 

Tho' zephyrs were creeping, 

Or tempests were leaping, 
The spur to the bronco he wantonly pressed, 

And shouting and singing, 

And lariat swinging, 
Rode on like a spirit that never knew rest. 

Wherever he wandered, 

His money he squandered, 
With hand of a gambler and kingliest grace. 

And ever was willing, 

To stake his last shilling 
On turn of a penny or chance of an ace. 

191 



A hand to the weary, 

A smile to the dreary, 
He willingly offered to lowliest woe, 

And taunt to the sneering, 

And blow to the jeering, 
As willingly tendered to insolent foe. 

Last night at the Bruin, 

He guzzled red ruin, 
And tackled draw poker along with the rest, 

When one began stealing 

The cards they were dealing, 
And Waddy objecting, was shot in the breast. 

Aware that he's going, 

For cold he is growing, 
He calls for his saddle as rest for his head, 

Then says without flinching, 

That " Death is now sinching," 
And then on his blanket, the puncher lies dead. 

Chorus (for last verse : ) 

So, sing in soft numbcs, 

Of him that now slumbers, 
Who wantoned with fortune and scouted at care, 

And sweetly is dreaming, 

Tho' curlews are screaming 
And coyotes howling like imps of despair. 



192 



Heturneb XDitt] tEfyanks 

E. FRANK LINTABER. 

a ID ETURNED with thanks'' — summed up in this 
Is all of life's humiliation, 
The poet's blighted dream of bliss 

The ruin of his avocation ; 
'Tis sad to have them come amiss, 

Those children of our mind's creation 
Whom fickle fortune fails to kiss 

Or gladden with her approbation. 

u Returned with thanks " — and yet my heart 

Is throbbing with strange exultation ; 
Let those who ply the poet's art 

Term this, my hope, infatuation ; 
I would not have it otherwise 

Nor change with any in the nation, 
For 'twas a witch with sweet blue eyes 

Returned with thanks — my osculation. 



(Evening Haiti in Zllay 

LOCH ART. 

/""* REAT drops still linger on the dark'ning pane ; 
Sodden the fields, with hollows rankly green ; 
And strenuous robins, prophesying rain, 
Pipe from the trees that toward my window lean : 

Hoarse rolls the swollen river, dimly seen 

Mottled with frothy patches ; while its breast, 
Filled, like my own, with musical unrest, 
Is thinly covered with a misty screen. 

Crouched 'neath umbrellas go the passers-by, 
In gloom lone vanishing ; a wheelman flies 
Swift as a shadow of approaching fate : 

Low swamps are vocal with a carping cry ; 

The wayside pools have querulous minstrelsy ; 
Lambs bleat aloof; — the village clock strikes eight. 



193 



presentiments 

MARY LAMBERT 

TIT" HAT things are ye, that come at will 

And bid all joyous thoughts be still? 
That speed throughout the buoyant frame 
The flash of thy electric flame? 
Whose power checks the smile that starts, 
A simoon's blast o'er fainting hearts? 

Presentiments ! Whence are ye sent ? 

But changes of the element? 

Or instruments of destiny 

Full freighted with true prophecy ? 

Dost come, dark messengers of woe, 

To whisper things our soul should know? 

Are ye but shadows of a touch 
Or spectres of a dream too much ? 
Grim phantoms of a vanished word 
In warning dreams but faintly heard? 
Or are ye but a haunting tone, 
The mournful echo of a moan ? 

Whence springs the sigh and starting tear? 
Why thrills the soul with trembling fear? 
Why sinks the heart, a leaden weight — 
A moment since with joy elate? 
While fun'ral clouds with crape-like pall 
In deathly sadess cover all ! 

From out the misty realms of space 
Ye come to each, in every place. 
Upon the distant billow's crest — 
In peace, in strife — thy strange unrest. 
Pervades the unsuspecting nerve 
Its subtle purposes to serve. 

194 



Ye mysteries, that come unsought, 
Thy breath with sorrow, ever fraught ! 
Strange visitants of watchful love. 
Ye must be sent from God above. 
What human instinct fails to see, 
Is whispered to the soul by thee ! 



€*K Winb 



CLARA TEAR. 

HTYPE of the Eternal Spirit, 
*■ Unseen breath, thy ways unknown 
Voice of God, I love thine accents 
Cherish e'en thy deepest moan. 

With the throng I love thy whispers 
In the gentle summer breeze ; 
But thy noblest revelations 
Come not to my heart from these. 

Though beyond my understanding 
Thy contempt for treasures frail, 
Thou hast led to the foundations 
That eternal, cannot fail. 

Mine are now abiding treasures, 
And though thou hast caused me pain, 
Through the loss of what was " shaken " 
I have found my highest gain. 

Voice of love, and power, and wisdom, 
Strong to spoil, but strong to save, 
As an infant lulled to slumber, 
Safe I rest on land and wave. 



195 



IXot l}\ £oct?er 



AM A LAURETTA WASH BURN. 



(~\ MY lassie, dinna think ye 
^ That for" warly warth " I sue ; 
Ye maun ken I didna speir ye 
For y'r tocher, but for you. 

I've twa acres, a bit hoosie, 
Ye maun lea' the lave to me ; 

I'd na gie for muckle treasure, 
Jist the luve-licht o' y'r ee. 

A' the warl' is dark wi'oot ye ; 

Ghaists walk oot at hoor o' noon, 
For a' the lift is lowerin', eerie, 

The sun, he winna shine abune. 

O my lassie, bonnie dearie, 
Hark the burnie rinnin' by ; 

Listen to it greitin', sobbin', 
Sair its murmur, like a sigh. 

Greitin' like my hert wi'oot ye, 
For the sun-licht ye maun bring ; 

A gowden tocher frae y'r ainsel, 
Ljchtin' oop wi' joy a' thing. 

O my lassie, gin ye lo'e me, 
I can bide wi' ony weal ; 

Heaven is near, an' life is bonnie, 
Gin the tane to tither's leal. 



196 



Xlapokon anb 3osepfyine 

AEEEN E. HEBRON. 

^PHOSE cruel words are spoken, 

That wicked deed is done ; 
A loving heart is broken, 

Immortal fame is won. 
Not by the martial trumpet, 

Not by the tramp of war, 
But Love o'er Pride hath triumphed, 

A mightier conquest far ! 

How could you dare displace her, 

The noble, good, and true, 
Who in this struggle yielded 

More than her life for you? 
How could you dare to sunder 

The tie to her so dear, 
The sacred name of " wife '' upon 

Another to confer? 

I know you must have loved her, 

When, oh ! how sadly lone, 
She strove to find some pleasure 

In thinking of your own. 
When placing every feeling 

Of self upon the shrine 
Of perfect immolation, 

She seemed almost divine. 

Thou "fatalist !'■' God's Providence 

Is surely just and true ; 
Though oft its vengeance slow may seem, 

Upon a favored few. 
197 



Long it may bear with beings 
Who're cast in noble mould — 

Still God's created Universe 
His justice must behold ! 

The tie was never sundered 

Before the "Court" of Heaven ; 
And she was not your wife to whom 

The throne of France was given. 
The heir for whom you sacrified 

The crown of manhood's worth — 
High Heaven's Retribution ! — 

Has faded from the earth. 

While he whose veins are flowing 

With the b!ood of Josephine, 
Stands proud among the monarchs 

Where once your throne has been ! 
True in your deep adversity, 

Her deathless woman's love 
Hath triumphed over every test, 

And lives with her above ! 



198 



IDf}at tfye ixlacs £}eavb 



KATE A. BRADLEY. 



*THERE was never a note in the happy spring breeze 

That jostled and rustled the lilacs about — 
There was never a secret buzzed out by the bees 

That hummed o'er the blossoms, now in and now out — 
There was never the whir of a swift-winging bird, — 

But the lilacs heard. 



So, when two young lovers came loitering by, 

And paused by the lilacs because, they both thought, 

That here 'neath the flowers no ear could be nigh 

To hear the soft words that her list'ning heart caught 

While eagerly, deeply, of loving they quaffed, — 

How the lilacs laughed ! 

But when the coy maid ne'er an answ'ring word said, — 
Not even to tell if she loved him or no, — 

But blushed and drew backward and hung down her head, 
Like a flower in the wind, as the lily-bells blow, 

And stood with her eyes never raised from the ground, — 

Then the lilacs frowned 

And swayed to and fro in the soft, scented air, 

And shook all their bows till the crushed petals flew. 
"Oh, fie!" they cried; "fie! Tell him yes,— 'tis but fair i 
Why, that is the only thing proper to do ! " 
But the maid heard no whisper of all that was said 

By the lilacs o'erhead. 

Her eyelids drooped lower, a sigh moved her breast, 
And over her cheek stole a slow-dropping tear. 

He kissed the pink fingers that his shyly pressed, 
And bent his head close, oh so closely, to hear 

As she breathed in a breath just one sweet little word, — 

But the lilacs heard ! 

199 



Cfyrougl} IDinbing XDays 



C A. NEIDIG. 



DEATEN and bare as the broad highway — 

Though not like the highway straight and bold- 

Was the woodland path I found to-day, 
Winding serpent-like, fojd upon fold. 



Whose foot first pressing the yielding grass, 
Wandered so aimlessly here and there ; 

Making for those who follow, alas ! 

A tortuous way through the wildwood fair? 

Perchance a butterfly's gilded wing 

Beckoned a child, and he sped away; 

Turning again at a blue-bell's ring ; — 
Hither and thither the live-long day. 

Enough ! Since weary and patient feet 

For years have followed this wayward guide ; 

Now in through the shadows cool and sweet, 
Now out by the noisy brooklet's side. 



I learn this lesson, O wood-path gray, 

And trust its truths I may ne'er forget : 

Each life must follow the self-same way 

Of all who have smiled and sorrowed yet. 



Do we reach the heights sublime and grand, 
We press the foot-prints of others here ; 

Are we lost in the depths of " shadow-land,' ' 
The path is beaten; we need not fear. 



200 



Summer 2?et>eries 

MRS. L. J. H. FROST. 

/^UT in the rank and tangled grass 

The golden buttercups glisten ; 
And wild bees through the sunshine pass, 
Murmuring ever a thankful mass, 
While the zephyrs stop to listen. 

The humming bird kisses the rose's red lips. 

While he steals away her sweetness; 
The clover's honey the butterfly sips, 
And his beak in the fountain the oriole dips, 

Never thinking of summer's briefness. 

There's a robin's nest in the old apple tree 
That stands by the edge of the meadow ; 

I wonder if birds so happy and free, 

Ever a moment of sorrow see, 
Or, do they sing on forever? 

A beautiful rosebud veiled in green, 

Is trying its fragrance to smother ; 
Nestling low down that it need not be seen, 
Timid as any young bride, I ween, 

Who clings to her loving mother. 

The tremulous lily is swinging her bell, 

Unconsciously crying her sweetness ; 
While she droops her head modestly down in the dell, 
Forever believing. that all things are well, — 
A beautiful lesson of meekness. 

But here and there a shadow doth lay, 

Dark and deep like a sorrow ; 
Saying plainly as words could say, 
" Though the sun shines bright and fair to-day, 
Clouds may come on the morrow." 

201 

N 



IDintcr (Lfyougfyts 



THOS. J. FARLEY. 

'THE falling; snow imparts a gentle feeling 
Of perfect peace to all the weary earth 
Each little flake so lightly downward stealing 

Or wheeling 

In wildest mirth. 
The rushing rhythm of the brook is still, 

No sound is heard 
'Till from the woods beyond the snow-hid hill, 

Some lonesome hid 
Sends up its plaint with mournful trill, 
And then at night around the hearthstone dreaming 
Of days that were, of joys that used to be, 
Each age-dimmed eye with well-loved memories teeming 

Or beaming 

In youthful glee, 
And memories, too, of sadder scenes are brought 

By each bright blaze 
To some decaying mind, and with the thought, 

As in a maze, 
The mind is lost and sleeps, the world is aught, 
And when the sun advances with the morning, 
'Till first beheld behind the snow-clad hill, 
Why, he but adds to nature's white adorning 

By dawning 

More brightly still ; 
While echoes answer to the ceaseless tread 

Of countless feet, 
He barely deigns to show his haloed head, 
But brightens grandly with a wond'rous skill 

And touches fleet 
The icy tears that night had shed. 



202 



23erectt>ement 

L. B. HAJRTMAN, D. D. 

VyHEN tempests rage and sorrows roll, 
Like Alpine torrents o'er the soul, 

The spirit faint and weary ; 
When brighter days have set in gloom 
O'er empty home and vacant room, 

And all is sad and dreary; 
In vain our tears unbidden start, 
And sighs escape the aching heart, 
With fond endeavor to relieve 
The pain o'er which our natures grieve. 

When those who share with us the strife, 
And toils and sorrows of this life, 

By Heaven's decree are taken ; 
When through the mortal veil the press, 
And leave us in this wilderness, 

Forlorn, bereav'd, forsaken; 
In such a day, all comfort lies 
In trusting—" God's decrees are wise,'' 
By faith assured, if understood, 
"All things together work for good." 

God sometimes hides a smiling face 
In mysteries of sovereign grace, 

Our souls in love refining; 
Tears chase our joys, as night the day, 
Life's crucibles our hearts assay, 

In pain so oft repining. 
Sad heart: look up, see, darkness lends 
Enchantment to the bow that bends 
In yonder sky— dark mist of tears 
The background of life's brighter years. 
203 



We little dream such ills are sent, 
In kindest love with best intent, 

Our highest good involving. 
Such darkness showing star-lit skies, 
And tears, that speak of stronger ties, 

Our loves to earth dissolving. 
For all our griefs and heartaches here, 
The brighter must our heaven appear, 
When all the " loved ones " meet again, 
And God will make our sorrows plain. 



Cf?e (Dlb IMcabow patfy 

JEAN LA RUE BURNETT. 

I SEE it now — a wav'ring thread of gold. 
Loose woven 'mid soft strands of emerald spray. 

Out from the shady wood it leads away 
And takes its zigzag course, in freedom bold,. 
Across the velvet fields, there to unfold 

And lose itself in distant mists of gray ; 

Along its length the lazy shadows play, 
Just as they did in happy days of old ; 
And by its side upon the thistle's plume 

The saucy black bird swings his cooing mate, 

Or pipes at eventide his vesper lay, 
Where wee star-asters breathe their faint perfume, 

As slowly upward toward the moss-grown gate 

The lowing cattle wend their homeward way. 



1204 






Illy Sa&y 

ROSALIE M. JONAS. 

1\/[Y Lady's eyes are clear and deep 
As yonder pool that lies asleep, 
Bosomed on flower-scented hill ! 
My Lady's lips cling; close, and fill 
These tender days with soft delight, 
And all sweet summer hours of night, 
With heart-beats which praise God, that He 
Hath given love — and her — to me ! 



©?e pool 

LESTER HOLLIS. 

DY country road I found a pool, 

Whose waters gleam'd so clear and cool, 
'Neath bending trees of dusky green, 
That like magicians' work, the scene 
Was mirror'd in liquid depths below ! 
The lilies even seemed to row — 
The passing cloud take fleeting shadow — 
And then I thought on all the years 
This pool had pictur'd smiles and tears 
On nature's face, yet worldlings cry, 
" The pool is naught to you or I.'' 



205 



3it 21Iemoriam 



H. THEODORE JOHNSON. 

IKE a plume from the wing of an eagle, 
Or a fringe from the mantle of night, 
When the storm or the darkness is vanquished, 
Thy spirit has taken its flight. 

Like an arrow shot skyward at even, 
Full feathered and barbed for thy mark, 

Faith's vision alone may pursue thee, 

But mine eyes cannot peer through the dark. 

As I see thee no more return earthward, 

Though I search o'er the hills and through dale, 

I will turn from my quest and repining, 
And to Hea'en glance a tnsle vale. 

For I know the Great Archer who aimed thee, 
Who hath broken the bow and the string, 

Doth delight in the end of thy mission, 
Doth rejoice as the prize-echoes ring. 

For straight to the mark go God's arrows ; 

His spirits well knoweth their home ; 
On earth though they wander in sadness, 

Their time of redemption will come. 

So rest on thou earth-wearied spirit, 

Above evil clouds and their gale; 
The quiver of love now doth shield thee, 

So I bid thee a blithsome vale. 



I say thee not farewell in sadness, 
I wish thee bon voyage, blest saint ; 

Ere long I shall greet thee, good morning ! 
Should I hot on my pilgrimage faint. 



206 






Sad only the hour of parting, 

When eternity rears a grim wall, 

When the lost and beloved are severed, 
'Tis a triste vale then to all. 

When death simply serves as a curtain, 

Disclosing eternity's noon, 
Our farewells are simply love's symbols, 

Betok'ning a reunion soon. 



iovc 



LILLIAN plunkett. 

"T^OES Love bring peace? Aye, more, a glad rejoicing, 

Happier by far than song of merry bird ; 
In language of its own it finds a voicing. 
Sweeter than any speech the ear hath heard, 
Clearer than spoken word. 

Can Love endure? Aye, ceaseless as the ocean, 
Firm as a rock o'er which mad billows break ; 

There is no limit to its deep devotion, 
No sacrifice too great for one to make 
For its dear, cherished sake. 

Does Love change? Aye, the scented breath of summer, 
Whispering low to blossoming flowers entwined, 

Is not more faithless than this fair new comer ; 
But oh, unlike the sighing, swaying wind, 
Love leaves a trace behind. 

Does Love die? Aye, — then lo ! at night uprisen, 
A wan and vengeful spirit slips its chain 

And cheats us of our rest. Forsakes its prison 
To glide into our dreams, and wake the pain 
We thought forever slain. 



207 



HENRY T. STANTON. 

A 17 HEN summer's birds are bringing 
Their clear, concerted singing, 
Singing gladder, gladder, gladder in their glees; 

When finches and the thrushes 

Make vocal all the bushes, 
And the lark his note of morning welcome frees ; 

I hear no meter sweeter 

Than peter-peter-peter, 
That the peter-bird is singing in my trees. 

How good to lie and listen, 

When brooks in summer glisten, 
As they ripple, ripple, ripple to the sea ; 

Where faintly in the pebbles 

They play their pretty trebles 
In the plaintive, sad and tender minor keys ; 

But they can play no meter 

Like peter-peter-peter, 
That the peter-bird is singing in my trees. 

When softly at the nooning, 

I hear the clover crooning 
Of its nectar, nectar, nectar and the bees; 

When corn a-field is drying, 

And fading blades are flying, 
With the floating pennon-rustle in the breeze, 

Oh, sweet it is, but sweeter 

Is peter-peter-peter, 
That the peter-bird is singing in my trees. 

208 



When summer's joy is over, 

And bees have robbed the clover, 
Leaving odor, only odor to appease ; 

When rich, autumnal juices, 

Make music in the sluices, 
As their fruity currents gurgle from the lees, 

The wine tide song's not sweeter 

Than peter-peter-peter, 
That the peter-bird is singing in my trees. 

When, after this life passes, 

They lay me under grasses, 
And this fretting, fretting, fretting is at ease ; 

Then, let there be no sighing, 

No wailing for my dying, 
No, nor any pomp a lower sense to please ; 

But let there be the meter, 

Of peter-peter-peter, 
From a peter-bird left singing in the trees. 




209 



5cIf=Clbncgatton in iovc 

LITA ANGELICA RICE. 

/^ LOVE ! I count my words for fear that they 

May touch some silent cord unknown to' me 
Some hidden memory that yet may be 

Too sad to be brought back to light of day. 

Or else I hold my peace ; so hard to say 

In words the tender thoughts I keep for thee, 
For words with thoughts can never so agree 

That they the truest meaning will convey. 

And when I lay my arms about thy neck, 

I wish that they were armor bright and fine, — 
That they might shield thee from all pain and care ; 

So little of my flesh and blood I reck 

That were they slashed with swords I'd not repine, 
If, only, life to thee be bright and fair. 




210 



Wtyn Woulbst {Etjou Die? 



F. P. KOPTA. 

T17HEN wouldst thou die? Upon a summer day, 

When balmy winds should blow about thy face, 
And countless flowers bloom in every place, 
While happy birds should sing the funeral lay? 

Wouldst thou lie down to sleep while loving hearts 

Repeated prayers for thy parting soul? 

And in the distance thy church-bell should toll 
A last farewell to one, who now departs ? 

Or wouldst thou sink to sleep upon the waves, 
The waves perchance that kiss thy native shore, 
And those white cliffs, that thou shalt see no more, 

Till all the dead shall rise from out the graves ? 

Or wouldst thou die upon the battle-field? 

Greeting the earth of which thou art a part, 

Unconscious, even, of the deadly dart 
That soon shall force thy fearless soul to yield. 

There is but one way into life, but death 

Comes in a thousand ways, a thousand forms, 
Its voice is heard within the howling storms, 

Its touch is felt in the hot fever's breath. 

Years, years ago a Roman wife was told 

She should be free, but that her lord must die ; 
The guards were at the door, they could not fly, 

Nor could they bribe those hired soldiers bold. 

He held her in his arms — his heart beat wild — 
The dagger fell from out his weakened hand, 
They heard the footsteps of the soldier band — 

They kissed each other, in that moment wild. 

211 



Tis hard to die because a tyrant wills, 

When one is young, and all the world is fair ; 
The Roman noble found it hard to bear, 

And give the blow, that would end all his ills. 

He gazed upon her, and his hand was weak 
To strike the death-blow to his own young life. 
Though fearless he had been in battle's strife, 

Before her gaze, his manly heart was weak. 

She caught the dagger with a smile sublime — 

And struck it to her heart, while low she said, 
" It does not hurt, O loved one." And fell dead 
Thus died two Romans, in the olden time. 



Cfjc ©lb 5teI6 

LESTER HOLLIS. 

"O OUND about it the pine trees stand, 

Throwing their shadows on yellow sand ; 
In " corner thickets" the sumacs grow, 
Their blood-red leaves in the sunshine glow; 
And over the fallen fence a vine 
Trails garlands the color of amber wine. 
A rabbit peeps out 'tween the rott'ning rails, 
And then at our presence his courage fails ; 
See, like a flash, he darts out of sight. 
While a flock of partridges take their flight 
From the "sage" grass waving on either side 
Of the narrow path. Now summer has died 
And left but a " ling'riug glory" here 
To make the old field still more dear ; 
For we know where the violets bloomed in spring, 
And the spot where the birds would sweetest sing ; 
So November takes on the beauty of May, 
As through the old field we wander to-day. 



212 



G. $ebxuavty Sky 

IDA BELLE EVANS. 

VyHAT! weeping still? 

O sky, and will you ne'er be glad again ? 
So many dreary days since last you smiled ; 
So long that cheerless robe of sombre grey 
Has hidden from my tired eyes the blue 
That I so love and long to see you wear. 

Why do you weep ? 

Is it because of him who long has been 

The loving light and gladness of your life, 

Whose presence was your joy, whose absence pain ? 

He has forsaken you for skies more fair 

And you cannot but grieve for him ? 

Nay, do not weep — 

He will return. Be glad, for in my heart 
There is no joy when you are sad. You know 
How day by day I watch your changing hue 
And smile or weep with you ; the tiniest rift 
That parts the clouds before your face I see. 

Yea, how I watch 

To see it wide and wider part ; and when 

The dark'ning clouds have drifted out of sight — 

When, high above, you smile in joy serene 

And fleecy cloudlets on your bosom rest, 

Ah then, ah then my heart is glad with you. 

Oh, now you smile ! 

Did I not say your love would come again ? 

He comes, and with his same sweet kiss he chides 

You for your grief and bids you weep no more. 

Throw off the grey, put on your robe of blue, 

And in his faithful love again rejoice ! 



213 



Sfyellcy anb locals 



ROSALIE M. JONAS. 

T^WO poets lie dead, by the ruined walls 

Of dead old Rome ! Yet their song is heard ; 
And, over the mouldering stones, a bird — 
New-born of the Spring — to his nest-mate calls. 

Dead poets ! Ye sing to the living soul. 
Dead ruins ! Ye quiet the restless heart ! 
Death — greatest of masters ! — shall never impart 
The secret of Life, while the ages roll ! 



Crust Ctjou in (Sob 



JOHN P. ROSS. 



w 



HEN life is seeming short and drear, 
When all seems dark and full of fear 
Trust thou in God. 



When blessed with all this world can give, 
When happiest in the life you live, 

Trust thou in God. 

When sin is manifest in wrong, 
When thou hast shared and served it long, 
Trust thou in God. 

When thou art seeming perfect here, 
When thou hast followed Christ sincere, 
Trust thou in God. 

Trust thou in Christ the Lord, in God 
Trust thou till lying 'neath the sod, 

Trust thou in God. 



214 



Sfyabovcs 

JENNIE GERALD. 

T3 IGHT gaily they sail, those beautiful clouds, 

Over a sea of ethereal blue ; 
Snow it may be, of her crystals so proud, 
Gleefully casts a cool shadow for you. 
Softly the shadows are falling for thee ; 
Cool shadows for you, cool shadows for me. 

Shadows, dark shadows are falling for thee, 

May be the shadows of Gethsemane ; 

If such be the shadow, my friend, cast for you, 

I pray that God's sunshine may fall with it, too. 

Softly the shadows are falling for thee ; 

Dark shadows for you, dark shadows for me. 

God's shadows bring, to the earth weary, rest, 
And pillow the head on dear Jesus' breast ; 
Faith, Hope and Love, Bible promises borrow, 
And build on these an eternal to-morrow. 
Softly the shadows are falling for thee ; 
Rest shadows for you, rest shadows for me. 

God's hand may be in the shadows we see, 

As He touches to brightness the joys yet to be ; 

Or, perchance 'tis a wing in affection He spreads- 

A sweet mother-shield thrown about our heads. 

Softly the shadows are falling for thee ; 

Wing shadows for you, wing shadows for me. 



215 



£f]e (£cl]o in tfye £?cart 

LEWIS W. SMITH. 

TT is not the poet's song, 

Bidding hopes wild fancies throng 
It is not the lute-notes clear 
That we love, tho' they are dear ; 
It is but what they impart, 
'Tis the echo in the heart. 

We may never understand 
All the tender, all the grand, 
That the poet feels, but still, 
Pulses thro' our hearts a thrill, 
Something to the hard unknown 
Comes to us and us alone. 

Every heart has hoped in vain, 
Buried deep some lingering pain, 
But its memory is stirred 
By some lightly spoken word, 
And the sudden teardrops start 
At the echo in the heart. 



Vain Hegrcts 



ESTEELE mendell. 

T'HE sun was setting on a life misspent ; 

And as the mind o'er the past years went, 
From the dying lips came the sad refrain : — 
"Could I but live my life again, 
Oh, then my aim should be so high, 
That at its close I need not cry 
In deep distress, yet all in vain, 
To live the wasted years again ! '' 



216 



Kest 



ROSA VERTNER JEFFREY. 



HHHE white sailed ships are sailing, sailing out to sea, 
The weary winds come wailing, wailing in to me ; 
Oh, white sailed ships ! where do ye go ? 
Oh, winds ! why are you wailing so ? 
The ships sweep outward, on and on, 
Out to the ocean and are gone; 
Lost to the sight 'mid earth and sky, 
The sobbing winds make sad reply — 
"They have gone to be tossed on the ocean's breast, 
We are wandering shoreward for rest, for rest." 

The white-winged gulls are flying, flying out to sea, 
The tide comes sighing, sighing, oh, so drearily! 
Say, white-winged gulls, where do ye go? 
Oh tides ! why do ye ebb and flow ? 
Far, far away have the white gulls flown ; 
The tide, creeping shoreward, makes moan, makes moan ; 
Away where the storm-waves lash the decks, 
The sea-gulls find broken spars and wrecks; 
" They will furl their wings on a sea-girt nest, 
We are sweeping shoreward for rest, for rest.'' 

Away, like the ships, forever, forever, o'er life's wild wave, 
We are seeking and finding never, oh never ! the bliss we 

crave. 
In the track of the sunset, soft and warm, 
The gulls fly seaward to wind and storm ; 
The white ships, seeking some brighter shore, 
Sail outward, and may return no more. 
Oh, restless heart! there is storm and strife, 

217 



There are wrecks on the treacherous sea of life. 
Return, oh gull ! with thy storm-swept breast, 
Return, oh heart! unto rest, unto rest. 

My wayward thoughts are sailing, sailing on the rim 

Of blue where the day is paling, paling and growing dim. 

Oh, restless heart ! like the ebb and flow 

Of the tides do thy wild thoughts come and go, 

Still seeking in shadows that disappear 

That something divine which we find not here. 

The crown of to-morrow, so warm and bright, 

Usurped " by to-day '' may be reft of light. 

Oh, weary heart ! what is now is best ; 

Cease thy longing and dreaming, to rest, to rest. 



218 






£o a IDifc 

LEONARD BROWN. 

" T^ORSAKE thee not, no never, Jennie, meek ; 

Forsake thee not ; I love thee more and more,''' 

So have I sung through years beyond a score. 
The wild-rose bloom still reddens thy fair cheek ; 
Thou art my wealth, beyond what tongue can speak, 

Beyond all measure. Millionaires are poor; 

For I'd not yield thy love for all their store, 
My joy with thee for all they own or seek. 
Oh happy marriage ! blissful, blissful state ! 

God is my shepherd, in green pastures led, 
He gave to me — O gift most fortunate ! — 

Gave thee to me: and "ye are one," He said — 
Bestowed on me a glorious estate — 

Not lands or money, but thy love instead. 

What are they worth (broad lands and stocks and gold) 

Compared with happiness we, darling, find 

In our plain cabin — happiness of mind. 
Trusting in God, His goodness we behold, — 
Behold in bread and blessings manifold, — 

And to His providence we are resigned ; 

For e'en His harshest chastenings are kind — 
Our minds into the Saviour's likeness mould ; 
They bind our souls together closer still 

And teach me how to prize a God-given friend. 
O dearest friend ! they cause us to fulfill 

Our mutual duties till we reach life's end. 
Prosperity does sacred friendship kill ; 

Adversity leads kindred souls to blend. 

Who looks abroad while glow the prairies wild 

With lilies and a thousand floral stars, 

Sees beauty as when Paradise unbars 
Her golden gates to show where undefiled 
Walked Eve before the serpent-fiend beguiled 

Her trustful into evil that still mars 

The souls of all mankind with ugly scars 

219 



Healed only since was born the wondrous child, 
And angels sang the choral hymn above, 

And shepherds listened with supreme delight — 
Thy gentle voice and blameless life, my dove, 

How beautiful, both to my ear and sight ! 
More ravishing than angel's hymn, O love ! 
More beautiful than prairie-lilies bright. 

Now let me clasp thee in one long embrace ; 

I love thee, darling, and we twain are one, 

Not for a day, but till descends the sun 
To rise no more upon Creation's face. 
Till pass from Earth the last of human race, 

And all the shining orbs their course have run; 

Then will our raptures have but just begun, 
Our joys unbounded as the boundless space ! 
Through vast immensity our course we speed ; 

We rise, advance, learn, know, advancing still, 
Onward and upward, nothing to impede — 

Where Beatrice made Dante's heart to thrill 
I drink enraptured bright, ambrosial mead — 

I drink thy love, but never drink my fill. 



220 



XDilliam Sfyakespcare 



MRS. J. G. MAURER. 



IS, 



(i/\S from the wing no scar the sky retain; 

The parted wave no furrow from the keel," — 
So, after death no vestige yet remains 

Of countless lives, of earnest toil and zeal. 
The giant oak still lifts its towering head, 

Though, one by one, its autumn leaves decay — 
So runs the world, unmindful of its dead, 

Night's deepest shadows vanish with the day. 

u An oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light,'' 

For which some soul in misery sadly yearns, 
An inch of taper quenched, then rayless night 

Oblivion's bourne from whence none e'er returns ; 
But he who died on Avon's quiet shore, 

The Stratford home where dawned his natal morn, 
He left a name which, lanrel-wreathed, shall gleam 

Above the wrecks of centuries yet unborn. 

No marble shaft, which mortal hands have reared, 

No lofty arch, or mausoleum grand, 
Records his fame— but writ in words sublime, 

On human hearts his epitaph shall stand. 
With what consummate skill his verse portrayed, 

The crafty Shylock, eager for his bond — 
Or pale Macbeth, with bloody dagger drawn 

From murdered Duncan's deep and ghastly wound. 

The ghostly sire of Hamlet "doomed to walk" 

Where grinning skulls and hideous corpses lie- 
Fair Juliet's sleep, within the mouldy vault, 

221 



Transformed to death by three fold tragedy. 
The midnight tempest, — homeless, mad King Lear, 

Heart-broken victim of his daughter's plot, — 
Or Egypt's queen, in royal robe and crown 

With poisonous asp, untie "life's tangle knot.'' 

From FalstafT's wit, to dark Othello's rage, 

Midsummer fairies, to a murderer's dream, 
From king to beggar, every line reveals 

The genius of a master-mind supreme. 
Immortal bard ! whose keen and subtle brain 

Discovered realms of thought before unknown, 
In ages past, and for all time to come. 

Without a likeness, Shakespeare stands alone. 



Ctr»o iigfyts 

J. P. C. MCPHEB. 

TIT' HAT eye hath seen the carrier dove in upward flight, 
Circling through the air on wings of whitest white, 

And caught the gleam it throws against the azure light, 
so liquidly? 

One instant, and 'tis gone, but Fancy's eye as keen, 

Its beauteous semblance to the eye of Love hath seen. 

The lustful counterfeit, in its subtle pose as Love, 
Doth glitter in the eye like flashing rapier drawn, 
Forth from a jeweled sheath, 'neath the sun at morn, 
A quick, quivering light, hot-eager in desire 
To quench the seething thirst of its unholy fire. 

But sterling Love hath virtues like the ivy vine, 
That oe'r the rock's cold bosom so fondly twines 
Its slender tendrils, with fond purpose to impart 
Its tender warmth and shelter to so cruel a heart. 



223 



Crust in (5o& 

MAGDALENE I. LA GRANGE. 

HTRUSTinGod: 

You can see His kind face beaming, 

A bright radiance from it streaming, 
If you turn to Him when troubles o'er you roll, 

For He watches near you ever, 

And His Love will fail you never, 
He will comfort, soothe, and strengthen your tried soul. 

Trust in God: 

Do not look to earth for healing 

Of the wounds you feel are stealing 
In, and all around your heart with nameless woe ; 

For though friends are a rich blessing, 

And the need for help is pressing, 
'Tis safest to go where life's healing fountains flow. 

Trust in God: ' 

Do not chafe if clouds still hover, 

With their dark and dreary cover, 
-So near they almost touch your bowed and drooping 
head ; 

For behind God's love is shining, 

Where it makes a silver lining, 
And in due time all its beauty will be on you shed. 

Trust in God : 

Give Him praise and true thanksgiving — 

Give Him your best love while living — 
Give Him thanks for blessings past, when present joys 
are gone ; 

For His tender heart is bleeding 

That so many are not heeding 
The hope Jesus gave to men upon that Easter dawn. 

Trust in God : 

So that when your life is ended, 
And the shades of death are blended, 
With the beauty and glory that flows from out the 
throne, 
He will come Himself to meet you, 
And His loving voice will greet you 
With the message that eternal joys are all your own. 

1>24 



2Hy lassie 

EMEKINE STKATTON REES. 

JUNE'S sweet roses, softly fragrant, 
Scattered perfume on the air 
As I clasped my heart's own treasure — 
A dear maiden wondrous fair. 

Then my soul its love breathed softly, 
Fancies sweet in accents low, 

For the future, with its blessings, 
Caused my heart to throb and glow. 

Magic castles rose enchanted, 

Palaces in silvery sheen, 
All at her command — my lassie — 

Daintier maiden never seen. 

Well I knew she loved me truly, 
Trusted me with her young heart ; 

Though in words she had not told me, 
Yet I felt the magic dart. 

So I sang in love's own measures 
(There was no one near to hear), 

As the twilight 'gan to gather, 
And I pressed my darling near. 

Surely you in days since vanished, 
Can recall that first love's song, 

Yes, I know you do remember ; 

Days like these are cherished long. 

As my voice grew very tender, 
On my bosom, fair and sweet, 

Laid a fuzzy head — my darling, 
Wee girl baby's — fast asleep. 



225 



£f]c Crcmsplcmteb floweret 

[To the memory of a favorite child.] 

DANIEL GAMBLE. 

1\/[Y darling, at last thou hast yielded thy breath,.. 

At last thou reposest in peace ; 
The struggle is ended ; the moment of death 
Hath brought thee a joyous release. 

The tempest that burst on thy opening day 

Hath lulled all thy sorrows to rest ; 
Thy soul hath abandoned its cottage of clay 

To dwell in the home of the blest. 

The Father of mercies in tenderest love 

Had bounded thy life to a span, 
Nor suffered thy spirit untainted to prove 

The trials alloted to man. 

Let kindred not weep o'er thy low narrow tomb,. 

But flowerets encompass the sod, 
For thou hast escaped from the evil to come, 

And gone to thy Eather, thy God. 

Thou well hast resigned an existence below, 

Despising its hopes and its fears, 
Whilst we must sojourn in this region of woe, 

Environed with sorrows and tears 

Oh then, let the days of our pilgiimage flee 

Till Nature's last conflict be o'er! 
We long for the hour that rejoins us with thee,- 

Where partings shall sever no more. 



226 



Ctnttpfyonals 



SIMEON TUCKER CLARK. 



"\ A Te are alone, my soul ! 
I bid you sing, 
Responsive to my solemn questioning ! 



" I hear you, Oh! fond heart, 
And will reply, 
Though at my answers, you should break and die !" 

Where now, doth beauty bide ? 
" In the grave's gloom 
That hides your darling to the day of doom !" 

Where look, too late, for light? 
" In her closed eyes 
That open not until the dead arise !" 

Where wait, in want, for wit? 
" Beneath the mould 
That dims the shimmer of her curls of gold !" 

What take in trust for truth? 
" Her lips! Oh! bliss! 
You were the first and death the last to kiss!'' 

Where may I fare for faith ? 
" To that cold clod, 
Which was her heart before she went to God !" 

Where, then, is beauty, light, 
Wit, truth and trust? 
" Their names alone remain, all else is dust !" 



227 



"Ctulb ianc, Syne" 

M. L. CARTER. 

AST night in dreams I visited 
The dear old home again, 
And wandered for awhile amid 
The forest and the glen. 

The squirrels played among the flowers 

And trees of leafy June, 
The wild bird from the shady bowers 

Sent forth a cheery tune. 

The yard in front the cottage door 

Seemed like a little pen, 
But flowers as fragrant as before 

Were blossoming again. 

I traversed all the many fields, 

The scenes of early toil, 
Where each succeeding harvest yields 

The products of the soil. 

Oh, Woodside, all thy beauty clings 

Around my memory, 
Each message of thy welfare brings 

Much happiness to me. 

The old stone church beside the wood 

I visited once more, 
There in the little pulpit stood 

The preacher as of yore. 

His once brown locks were snowy white 
His form was somewhat bent; 

He preached with his accustomed light 
The message that was sent. 

228 



Brothers and sisters, all around, 
With love and friendship greet, 

But some familar forms I found 
Were missing from their seat. 

Around the yard my way I wend, 
Mid graves with flowers dressed ; 

Where many dear departed friends 
Are laid away to rest. 



(Dne ZTTormng in ttjc <5arben 



ISIBORUS 



I 



N May, one morning, in early hours, 
I sat in garden 'mid rustling trees, 
Beheld around me the fragrant flowers 

So gently fanned by the western breeze ; 
My thoughts so quickly and lightly flew 
Around about like the winds that blew. 

I thought: Ye roses that now are calling 
My whole attention ; how sad ye'll be 

The day when weathered you will be falling, 
And May-day's glory no more I'll see ; 

When autumn's north wind, so cold and gray, 

Your fancy leaves will have blown away. 



hope's, fair roses, that once were blooming 
With fragrance sweet in my throbbing breast, 

1 long to see you again returning 

To life, and soon give my heart sweet rest. 
Come back to me and forever stay ! 
Bid all my sorrows pass far away ! 



229 



Clutumnal 



T. PARK BUCHER. 

" A SUMMER sun, an autumn sway, 
The gentle rain went on to say, 
" Are almoners of highest good 
" To all the trees of yonder wood.'' 

Another sun, the harvest moon, 
The reapers scan at early noon, 
And when at lunch beneath the shade 
Predict a vintage rich in grade. 

Meanwhile the birds in soulful song 
Their farewell cadences prolong, 
In sight of fields supremely blest, 
And vicinage of next year's nest. 

So do the fields their quivering palms 
Uplift to heaven in tuneful psalms ; 
Though soft their voices as of yore, 
Sweet incense yield at every pore. 

The orchard set in stately rows 
To catch the sun, the rain, the blows ; 
Its boughs are abler thus to bear 
The gifts entrusted to their care ; 

Nor long await Pomona's tread, 
To drop a welcome on her head : 
The goddess brings from Jove's decree, 
Concerning each fruit-bearing tree. 

230 



" Prosperity and grace ! to go 
Through all your veins in constant flow, 
Till apple, peach and pear can say, 

"I'm perfect as the autumn day!" 

And now, while I your gifts recall, 
With autumn's breath I bless you all ; 
May none of you e'er condescend 
To strew the ground for worms to rend ! 

Next comes Vertumnus, lord of all, 
Who comes to make a selfish call ; 
To gather where he has not sown, 
To husband what he has not grown ; 

Or tardy own the care and fear 
The farmer gave throughout the year, 
That he, his recompense may claim, 
And pick the fruit of every name. 

'Tis no vain show, the gods declare, 
These bounteous gifts the earth may share; 
The zephyrs share their rich perfume ; 
The golden sun their mild illume ; 

The feathered tiibes are free to try 
The nectar near the core may lie ; 
And mortals with their tastes acute 
May covet each delicious fruit. 

Beyond these plainer uses rise 
The features clever artists prize, 
When they would fascinate and preach 
On canvass, where they fail in speech. 



231 



And maiden fair, when she espies 
The fruit, quick gathers with her eyes ; 
Then counts the blushes on each cheek, 
Rekissing some choice ones that reek 

With sweets ; and baskets them in haste. 
In finest satin first encased, 
And bears them hence with swift delight 
To win a lover th rough t his sight. 

If rose, and pink, and eglantine 
Have their apt language and design ; 
Such timely gifts as mine shall say : 
"I'm willing to be wed some day." 

Still here you are, inviting fruit ! 
And while I linger thoughts take root 
And purpose grows: If I? I guess 
Your blushes symbolize her "yes!" 

CI7C pronoun "3" 

J. BUCHANAN SIDERS. 

/^\ FOR a man built on a plan, 

Be he from Beersheba — even from Dan, 
Who does not try, or even vie, 
To excel in the use of the pronoun " I." 

A man not proud, whose tones so loud, 
Don't cover you up in a wordy cloud, 
Who'll let you reply without a sigh, 
When he fails to get in his pronoun " I." 

A man who 's meek, without a cheek 
As hard as the stone on Freemont's peak, 
A man in speech who is somewhat shy 
When it comes to using the pronoun "I." 

232 



(Ertgrctt>ert 

E. L. MACOMB BRISTOL. 

(^\N the clean white sand I traced a name 

And watched the waves as they washed it out, 
And tho't in life it was just the same — 
That you lived and died with sands washed white. 
I cut a name in a white birch tree, 
'Twas youth's wild folly that made me do, 
But heart and sense will both agree 
That bark will cover the cut anew. 

I cut with love a name in my heart, 
Patiently traced the letters there, 
But the tide of passion formed a part, 
An inevitable ending in despair. 
I cut a name in a marble stone 
And the ivy crept and covered a grave ; 
The wind thro' the trees but echo a moan, 
The best is lost in trying to save. 




233 



View (Englanb 

C. H. PRATT. 

T LOVE it, though it has been long, 

Since mid its mountains green, 
I stood with childhood's happy throng 

By . Merrimac's pure sheen, 
Its pearly lakes and rivers bright, 

All brightly beam to-day, 
As when I wandered in delight 

By Massachusetts Bay. 

Where ''Montezuma's halls'' appear, 

And orange bloom is ripe, 
I heard the clang of battle's year, 

On bloody fields of strife. 
Nature was lovely as a bride, 

In cupid's garments drest ; 
And in that land, the Aztec's pride 

Is beauty ever blest. 

Yet memory, reverting back, 

Behold the " Plymouth Rock," 
To which o'er ocean's foamy track 

The Puritans did flock. 
Connecticut and Champlain's wave, 

Like melody's refrain, 
To me their invitation gave, 

" Come home, come home again." 

Land of my childhood ! Long indeed, 

Has been my stay from thee, 
But yet my fancy thou dost feed 

If other lands I see. 
If I no more thy scenes behold, 

Of loveliness so pure, 
May I abide in Jesus' fold, 

To Heaven's life secure. 



234 



Oou&s anb Sunshine 

[Taken from "Faith, or Earthly Paradise."] 

ELLEN E. HEBRON 
CLOUDS. 

f~\ l I LONG, I so long for the morning ! 

• The morning of love and of light; 
The morn that shall bring with its dawning 

A vision so peerless and bright 
Of a world that shall never know winter, 

Of a day that shall never know night, 
Of a trust that can know no betrayal, 

And a love that can never know blight. 

A rest in the grave all so quiet 

That even a king might be glad 
To exchange his proud throne for its slumber — 

For royalty often is sad — 
Shall herald the break of that morning 

As watchmen the first gleam of day, 
When the sleeper shall rouse from his thralldom,. 

To live and be happy alway. 

O the scene so enchantingly beauteous, 
To burst on the soul that is true ! 

the bliss so exultingly rapturous 

In "heaven and earth that are new!" 

1 fear not the grasp of the "Monster;" 
I dread not the grave with its night ; 

For they — and they only — are portals 
To this vision of love and of light. 
December 26th. 

235 



SUNSHINE. 

The sun has burst from his mooring 

Behind a mass of cloud, 
And poured a flood of beauty 

Upon the earth's cold shroud, 
Which yester and this morning 

Had wrapped its mantle round 
Till every house was laden 

And every twig was bound. 

Thus on the soul thai trusteth 

Go i's goodness bursts to view ; 
Thus glorious floods of sunshine 

Gild lives that e'er are true! 
For though dark clouds may gather, 

Their burdens to bestow, 
God s never-failing providence 

Makes beauteous e'en the snow. 
I 1 o'clock New Year's Day. 



236 



23Itgt}t=23Ioom 

ISADOKE G. JEFFREY. 

T IFE hath its barren years: — 

When blossoms fall untimely down ; 
When ripened fruitage fails to crown 
The summer toil ; when nature's frown 

Looks only on our tears. 

Life hath its faithless days. 

The golden promise of a morn 

That seemed for light and gladness born 

Meant only noontide wreck and scorn, 

Hushed harp instead of praise. 

Life hath its valleys, too, 

Where we must walk with vain regret, 
With mourning clothed, with wild rain wet, 
Toward sunlit hopes that soon may set 

All quenched in pitying dew. 



Life hath its harvest moons, 

Its tasseled corn and purple weighted vine ; 
Its gathered sheaves of grain, the blessed sign 
Of plenteous reaping, bread and pure rich wine ; 

Full hearts for harvest tunes. 

Life hath its hopes fulfilled ; 

Its glad fruitions, its blest answered prayer, 
Sweeter for waiting long, whose holy air 
Indrawn to silent souls breathes forth in rare 

Grand speech, by joy distilled. 

Life hath its Tabor heights; 

Its lofty mounts of heavenly recognition, 
Whose unveiled glories flash to earth munition 
Of love and truth, and clearer intuition. 

Hail mount .of all delights! 



237 



JDcIcomc Clutumn 

BERT WILSON HUFFMAN. 

T \ fAFT me a breath, O ye winds of autumn, 

Cool, fresh breath from the northland hills, 
Bring me the frost that turns the leaf yellow 

And scatters it down by the wandering rills. 
Ripen the corn, O ye listless breezes, 

Touch the apples with golden hue ; 
Bring the rain-clouds up from the ocean 

And scatter them over the spotless blue. 
Come with the rain, for summer is over, 

Come, for the old Earth's breast is dry ; 
Sprinkle the glad drops down through the clover ; 

Waken the children of storm in the sky. 
We are weary of sunshine, heat and roses, 

Weary of sleepless nights and days — 
Give us a breath that is fresh and merry ; 

Give us autumn with clouds and haze. 
Swing, O Time, on your endless races, 

Speed the day of the ripened corn ! 
Speed the day when the wind's wild chases 

Shriek in the woods like the battle horn ! 
Scatter the gold leaf down in the valleys, 

Lay it softly on corn and gr^in ; 
Toss the willows where birds are gathered, 

Piping in chorus their farewell strain. 
Scatter the leaves of the broad-faced poppy, 

Drive from the garden her breath of sleep, 
Toss to the winds what is left of August 

And come with autumn and clouds that weep — 
Come with the russet and come with gold leaf, 

Mantle the hills in a coat of brown — 
Come with a host that will conquer summer, 

And tumble her palace of blossoms- down. 

238 



G, prayer 

ALICE D. PORTER 

T7RIENDLESS and lonely, oh, Father, I roam 
In sorrow and tears, so far, far from home ; 
Send, in thy mercy, O Father, a ray 
Of divine love, to shed light on my way ! 

Unloved, my lot among strangers is cast; 
I long for those whom I loved in the past. 
Oh, God ! I come, in my sorrow, to thee, 
And pray that, in love, thou'lt hearken to me ! 

Let me not question thy love, oh, my God. 
I know I must tread the path others have trod, 
But, in the darkness, I pray thee to lend 
Thy hand to guide me, and confidence send. 



£ot>e's doming 

CAPT. R. KELSO CARTER. 

TJLOW, blow, whisper low, 

Song of the summer sea ! 
As thy lapping, wavelets flow, 
Cometh, my love, to me. 
Gently it speaks in the zephyr's breath, 
Softly its tender murmur saith, 
Love ! I am thine, for life or death ; 
Thine to eternity. 

Boom, boom, through the gloom, 

Wind of the winter sea ! 
As thy mounting billows loom, 
Cometh, my love, to me. 
Wildly it sweeps in the whirlwind's voice, 
Loudly its thunder-tones rejoice, 
Love! thou art mine — my only choice; 
Mine to eternity. 
239 



tEt]c dfyink of tfyc pay 

THOMAS BOUNDY. 

f^v HOW merry are we when the cold, sighing blast, 
^-^^ And the dark, doleful hours of the night are all past, 

And the welcome approach of the morn 
Summons each from his home to the factory's din, 
Where the clang and the toil of the day we begin 
In response to the call' of the horn. 
Chorus — So hammer and smite 

From morning till night, 

With a ceaseless roundelay 

'Tis a cheering song, 

The whole clay long, 

But the charm is the chink of the pay. 

Yes, we'll hammer and smite till the columns all ring, 
Till the walls of the factory echo and sing, 

And the roar of the engine be drowned ; 
It will soften the fetters of toil to be gay, 
It will silver the cloud of the gloomiest day, 

In a bright merry mood to be found. 

So hammer and smite, etc. 

There's a charm that we love in the rattle and noise, 
For they stir up the depths of our indwelling joys 

As they tell of a happier day ; 
As they tell of an income exempted from tax, 
And of brightness and gladness that come in the tracks 

Of the thrice welcome chink of the pay. 

So hammer and smite, etc 

Where. O where in the wide world was e'er found the wight 
Who from daybreak to gloaming would hammer and smite 

If he'd never a glimpse of a pay? 
r Tis the silver allures us onr labor to sell ; 
So we'll toil with a will, and be merry as well, 

And be prompt on the reckoning day 

.So hammer and smite, etc 

1240 



tEfye Decttfy of Summer 

CHARLES WESLEY KYLE. 

TIEARD ye that sigh 
11 Go by ? 

It seemed to travel toward the sky ; 

Methought it said : 

Lo, she is dead ; 

The power of Summer's life has fled ; 
Dimmed is the luster of her eye. 

Her lovely days 

And ways 

Die mid yonder sunset haze ; 

Unto the sight, 

Her tender light, 

Fading in folds of Autumn night, 
A peaceful beauty rare displays. 

The East was bright 

With light, 

And in the West retreating night; 

To me they said : 

Weep for the dead, 

The Autumn with the earth is wed, 
L,ook and behold, we speak aright. 

And it was true, 

There blew 

More chilling winds than summer knew; 

To her their breath 

Was instant death ; 

To me their mournful voices saith : 
Her spirit fades with yonder blue. 

The roses sigh 

And die ; 

Their leaves all torn and withered lie 

Upon the ground ; 

A solemn sound 

Fills all the airy space around; 
A sobbing, wierd, heart-touching cry. 
241 



The lilies pray 

To-day : 

Oh, let us here no longer stay; 

With Summer's sun 

Our work is done, 

Our race of life is fully run, 
Oh, bear us to our tomb away. 

The woodland choir 

Retire ; 

To sing no more is their desire ; 
No cheery note 
From feathered throat 
Upon the balmy air will float, 

Till Summer's smile shall it inspire. 

Some morn divine, 

With mine, 

I trust her spirit may entwine 

And live for aye, 

Where lustrous day 

Shall chase all thoughts of gloom away, 
Where comes of death no warning sigh. 



242 



Zlovo 3 Say Hie 

EUTH WARD KAHN. 

XT EAR the camp-fire's flickering light, 

In my blanket bed I lie, 
Gazing through the shades of night 

Up to twinkling stars on high. 
O'er me spirits in the air 

Silent vigils seem to keep 
As I breathe my childhood's prayer 

"Now I lay me down to sleep." 

Sadly sings the whip-poor-will 

In the boughs of yonder tree, 
Laughingly the dancing rill 

Swells the midnight melody. 
Foemen may be lurking near, 

In the canon dark and deep ; 
Low I breathe that none may hear, 

" I pray the Lord my soul to keep." 

'Mid those stars one face I see, 

One the angels bore away — 
Mother, who in infancy 

Taught my baby lips to pray. 
Her sweet spirit hovers near. 

In this lonely mountain brake — 
Take me to her, Father, dear, 

" If I should die before I wake." 

Fainter grows the flickering light, 

As each ember slowly dies ; 
Plaintively the birds of night 

Fill the air with saddening cries, 
Over me they seem to cry : 

"You may never more awake.'' 
Low I lisp: "If I should die, 

I pray the Lord my soul to take." 



243 



IITcmories 

EVABELLE SIMMONS. 

\ \ J"E roamed amid the daisies fair 

At sunset hour. The balmy air 
Made merry with her golden hair — 
A lassie blithe and debonair. 
Nor think it strange, while roaming there, 
(I long had loved this maiden fair) 
That I should then my love declare. 
Methought the angels longed to share 
Our happiness, as we did swear, 
With love so sweet, so pure, so rare, 
To share each other's weight of care, 
And all our mutual burdens bear. 
Though, gazing on her form so fair, 
I thought her presence anywhere 
A heaven, and madly deemed that care 
A rapturous bliss, which she should share. 

?£ >jc >[C ^ >\< y^ 

Alone I tread the daisies fair, 
But now the badge of mourning wear. 
My blue-eyed lass, with golden hair, 
Lies sleeping 'neath the flowers there, 
And earth seems cheerless everywhere. 
I sometimes feel I cannot tear 
Myself away, but must repair, 
At sunset hour, as if in prayer, 
To meet her blessed spirit there. 

* * * * * * 

O Father, in my dire despair, 
Help me this heavy cross to bear. 
Thou knowest best. We should not dare 
Expect below Heaven's joys to share. 
Were earth a heaven, we would not care 
To seek a " better country '' there. 
Yet this shall be my latest prayer, 
That angels may my spirit bear 
To Thee, to her, with her to share 
The home that knows no parting there. 

244 



Cfye (Striking anb tfye $loivzts 

JUNIUS L. HEMPSTEAD. 

T A HE Erlking softly lingers, in every autumn breeze 

As he steals with noiseless footsteps among the lofty 
trees ; 
And every time he whispers, a darling flower is dead. 
What does the Erlking tell them? What has he softly said ? 

I saw a blushing rosebud turn pale, then droop and die. 

But I could not hear the message as the wind went whist- 
ling by, 

And hurried Erlking onward, till he kissed each crimsoned 
gem. 

Ah ! then the shrine was leafless, with withered bough and 
stem. 

He danced on every zephyr, where the rank and waving 

grass 
Smiled in its emerald radiance, at the joyous barefoot lass 
That plucked the tinted starlings, dots on the green hued 

sea, 
With ever a heart so guileless, and a brown and shapely 

knee. 

He murmured to the freshness, that was born of early spring, 
And the voice of this autumn reaper had a cold, metallic 

ring, 
The flowers ne'er told the secret, as they smiled and gently 

died ; 
While the maiden gazed in wonder on the king and his 

dying bride. 

He promised the maid so sweetly that the flowers he put to 
sleep 

Should bloom from their purple couches, with many a clam- 
ber creep, 

From the beds so snugly hidden by robes of the downiest 
snow, 

To smile in their dewy sweetness whenever the spring 
should blow. 

245 



How can the roses blossom, except tiny droop and die? 
Or the mantle of gentle autumn, around the rosebush lie ? 
The Erlking only asked them to turn to a russet brown ; 
Then the winds caressed them gently and the leaves came 
fluttering down. 

The sigh of many an autumn has reached the maiden's ear; 
The woes of an early sorrow had been washed by many a 

tear ; 
The frosts of a dreary winter had mellowed the laughing 

smile, 
For she knew what the Erlking whispered, from his grim 

and shadowy isle. 

He kissed the rosy maiden, and toyed with her golden hair, 
And ever a kiss was a wrinkle, and ever a whisper a care; 
The rosebud that smiled in the meadow, that romped in 

the clover so sweet, 
Was withered and dead in his castle, with the petals strewn 

under his feet. 



246 



Co a Watev Sily 



F. E. MTADDEN. 

T^AIR lily, o'er thy watery bed, 

All nature smiled when thou wert born, 
So lovingly thou rear'dst thy head 
To greet the morn. 

Thy gentle form of spotless white, 

In soft unrest, like a twinkling star 
Dropt from the dome of heaven at night, 
Is pure as angels are. 

The pearly dew-drops chooseth well, 
Thy spotless chalice for its bower ; 
Close to thy heart, in mystic spell, 
To spend its hour. 

Pale guardian of the lowlier flowers, 

Thou art lovelier, blooming here, by far, 
Than in their richest, rarest bowers 
Thy gaudy sisters are. 

Sweet lily, thou shalt wither here, 
In this foul spot with odor's rife, 
That humbler flowers about thy bier, 
May drink thy life. 

Thy bloom upon the shores of time 
Will soon bedeck the halls above, 
Where angels chaplets grace the shrine 
Of perfect love. 



247 



nature's Sweater 

S. II. DALEY. 

DROAD and spacious is the building, 
From the scene none are excluded. 
Silence ! Lo ! with rosy fingers, 
Morn throws back the glowing portals, 
Enters Light in radiant costume. 
See her speed on wings of lightning ! 
Up, up, to the roof of heaven ! 
To the highest roof of heaven ! 
Putting out the constellations ! 
Putting out the lamps of Darkness ! 
Now the Darkness, gloomy-handed, 
Lifts aloof her ebon curtains, 
All her gloomy ebon curtains. 
Light commands, and Night in horror 
Flees away and takes her refuge 
In the Occidental cavern. 
Then the Light with pearly fingers 
Decorates this glorious mansion, 
Decorates with cunning fingers, 
As when Winter hangs her jewels 
On the waving boughs of woodland, 
By the banks of rolling rivers, 
On the summits of the mountains, 
Glittering like the gems of ocean, 
Thus the world is decorated. 
Now Apollo in his splendor, 
Slowly comes forth from his chamber, 
Comes forth from his central chamber, 
And rejoices as a strong man, 
In a mighty race contending. 
248 



See ! he comes ! In hand he bears 
A bow of silver. On his shoulder 
Quivers bound in perfect order. 
Now he sends in wild confusion, 
In more ways than are directions, 
Glittering shafts ; sparkling, flashing, 
Driving out from marsh and lowland 
All disease that walk in darkness, 
Softly blending in his splendor, 
All creation's glowing grandeur. 



tLo Byron's Dying (5la6iator 



A. L. MONROE. 



""PHE sculptor, with his magic wand of steel, 
And eye of genius, ever true and bright, 
Compels our admiration at the sight 
Of his supreme and matchless work of skill, 
And gives to every gazer there a sad delight. 
His miracle of art, for centuries long, 
When lo ! there comes a greater master still, 
Who, with his plastic powers of pen and ink, 
Conceives, and renders in immortal song 
A new, and bright and everlasting link, 
Which makes that writhing marble image think, 
And speak of wife and children far away, 
While there in dying agonies he lay. 



249 

Q 



CI Song of (LfycmhsgitHng 



T. BERRY SMITH. 



T'HE white moon peeps thro' my window blind 

As I'm sitting alone to night, 
Thinking of years I've have left behind 

And the days that have taken flight ; 
My heart is full of a nameless thrill 

That my life has been so sweet, 
And I fain would hurry to Zion's hill, 

And bow at the Giver's feet. 

The year just going has brought me boon 

As rich as the years gone by : 
The skies were clear at the harvest moon 

When the golden crops were dry ; 
The grain was garnered abundantly then 

For the wintry days ahead, 
And I thank the Giver of good to men 

For supplies of daily bread. 

No fell disease with ghastly shrouds 

Has come in grim disguise ; 
No war has spread its baleful clouds 

Athwart my azure skies ; 
But the dove of peace — the white-winged dove — 

Has built in my own roof tree, 
And the breezes have floated the banner of love 

O'er all my land and sea. 

So now I sing as best I can 

My glad thanksgiving song 
To Him who holds me by the hand 

And leads me safely along ; 
I am not worthy His smallest gift, 

Yet He gives me large and free, 
Therefore my song of praise I lift 

For His goodness unto me. 

250 



£fy> ITiab minstvd 



Lines to Edwin P. Taylor, M. D., Superintendent of the State Insane Asylum, Mendota, 
Wis., upon offering for his acceptance, a volume of poems by 

MARIA A. AUGUR. 

'""PIS Christmas; but I cannot see the boy 

Who brought me sunshine in those other years ;, 
Whose very prattle was a harp of joy — 
Whose tender hand oft stayed the falling tears. 

I often wonder — does he think of one 
Who hoards the beauty of his infant days 

More closely than the miser guards his own — 
The miser who upon his own need preys? 

Are there no chords set in his inmost heart, 
That quiver at the touch of Memory's hand ? 

No sympathetic notes that pulse and start 
Beneath the subtle touches of her wand? 

Does he remember how I used to swing 
His pretty form, while high above my head 

He seemed some happy songster, fluttering, 
As for "one push — one more!'' he shouting plead? 

Have early cares and other loves effaced 

Those glowing pictures of his infant life ? 
Tarnished their frame-work with sweet love-buds graced — 
Dimmed the fair blossoms with affection rife ? 

His name, 'tis like — yes very like — thine own ! 

I look on thee and feel his years my loss ! 
But Time can never rob me of the loan 

Of those bright golden hours — corroding dross 

251 



May throw its envious veil across their glow ; 

But when the Great Refiner's work is done, 
His crucible passed thro' by all below, 

O then the sparkling gold will be mine own ! 

Time in swift flight hath brought old age to me 
To him, the beauty of young manhood's years ! 

But looking backward I can clearly see 
My Baby Love — all dimples, smiles and tears ! 

The poverty of bitterness our lives divide ! 

Then be this poverty my only plea, 
That for his sake my love may on thee bide — 

May offer for his sake, this book, to thee. 



(Dn t\}c Sea 

A. I, CAMPBELL. 

/~^V BIRDS, with your white wings spread, 

On the crest of the waves of the sea 
Could I but follow you as you fly 

Or you bear a message for me — 
As love birds did of old 

To the sweethearts of nobles brave. 
Waking a hope in the heart of her 

Which I fear is in its grave ! 
Could you tell her, O birds on the wing, 

To trust and hope and pray 
For God's hand is leading me home 

In His own mysterious way. 



252 



pools in tt]c Sanb 



MARGARET MAY. 



T STOOD beside the sea one day, 

The tide was low ; 

With quiet flow 
It scarcely lapped the ocean's rim 
Whose waving line, now clear, now dim, 
Revealed the shelving, sandy beach, 

Where oft the waves 

To watery graves 
In quick succession swiftly bore 
Each other as they climbed the shore. 
The little hollows in the sand 

Like silvery nests 

Where sunshine rests, 
Just for the time appeared to me 
As lasting as' the shore to be ; 
But later, when the tide had turned, 

I found no trace 

In any place 
Of all the basins, which had seemed 
So lasting as they gleamed 
Beneath the glowing summer sun. 

Why had they fled 

Like bright hopes dead? 
Because the ocean in its sweep 
Had gathered all in one great deep. 

Here in the pools upon the sand, 

I seem to find 

Within my mind 
A type of Churches, Sects, and Creeds, 
Established for the great world's needs ; 
253 



Just for awhile they will remain, 

Each with its plan 

For blessing man, 
Till God's great love, like ocean-tide, 
In one shall all divisions hide, 
Then, folded on our Father's breast, 

Like tired child 

That wept and smiled, 
At last, we all shall come to be 
One Church, in its divinity. 



21Tattng Cime 

ESTEKLE MEXDELL. 

" "~PIS mating time," sang Robin Red, 

To his lady love on bough o'er head — 

" Will you be mine?'' in tones most sweet, 
When coy the answer came — " Tweet-tweet,''- 
And a trysted pair, away they flew, 
To make a home all nice and new. 

<( 'Tis mating time,'' said Tom to Kate, 

Lingering bashful o'er the gate — 
" And like the birds, a home let's make, 

All nice and new for love's dear sake,'' — 
" Yes, Tom,'' the tempting lips replied, 

Mid blushes sweet and a look of pride, 

And ere the close of leafy May, 

A cot went up across the way. 



254 



211otf)er's Dougtjnuts 



MRS BABBABA B. GAWBB. 

yOU can talk of your dumplin's 

Your puddin's or your pie, 
But jess give me the do'nuts 

That mother useter fry ; 
Yes, those great big crooked ones 

Made like a figger eight, 
Seems like they could mostly claim 

To be about first rate. 

They's flaky an' they's tender, 

They's golden brown an' sweet, 
There's nothin' could be better 

We ever had to eat 
Than jess those great big do'nuts 

Made like a figger eight, 
When we were awful hungry 

Heaped upon a plate. 

When at night we come from school 

An' not yit supper time, 
When we saw 'em in the pan 

O! wasn't they jess prime, 
A cookin' an' sizzin' there 

An' risin' up so high, 
Then roll'd in home-made sugar 

Like mother useter fry? 



255 



Sittin' here in the gloamin' 

Fancy weavin' her spell, 
I wonder if those do'nuts 

Would tas' to me as well, 
Or have they lost their flavor 

Like many other things 
Or have I lost the relish 

Which faded mem'ry brings? 

An' will nothin' tas' again 

Like mother useter cook ? 
Nothin' look to us no more 

Like what it useter look, 
Are the changes all in us, 

Is that the reason why 
There's no do'nuts now a-days 

Like mother useter fry ? 



256 



Spring ITTorn Voices 



JACOB B. DOCKENDOKFF. 

'T^ HERE'S a mildness and a sweetness in the dawning of 
the morn, 
As the rosy tints of twilight stealing nigh — 
Telling lower than a whisper that another day is born — 
Flee the shadows and the darkness from the sky; 
Loud the lusty cock is crowing, 
Bright the horizon is glowing 
And a roseate blush is flowing over all ; 
The squirrels all are chattering, 
Industriously pattering, 
And seemingly all flattering each other on the wall. 

There's a softness and a freshness in the breezes of the morn, 

As the balmy air comes laden from the bowers, 
Wafting on delicious fragrance from the leaflets newly born 
And the aromatic haunts of springing flowers ; 

Busy bees are outward hasting, 

There's no time for reckless wasting, 
Ev'ry bud and blossom tasting in their flight ; 

All buzzing unpretentiously, 

And toiling conscientiously, 
And highly advantageously from early morn till night. 

There's a joyousness and gladness in the meadows of the morn, 
As the dew-drop sparkles gayly in the sun, 

Borne aloft each shining crystal from the verdure they adorn, 
Up to heaven, to return when day is done; 



257 



Snowy lambs in transport joyous, 

Treasures that will ne'er annoy us, 
In their artlessness decoy us to their play ; 

Now frolicing and gamboling 

Or innocently rambling, 
And o'er the mothers scrambling they pass the time away. 

There's a wildness and a richness in the forests of the morn, 

As we listen to the rustle of the leaves 
Making music with the songsters that on airy wings are borne 
Homeward laden with the relics of the sheaves ; 

Ev'ry warbler is screaming 

And the rising sun is gleaming, 
Nature ev'rywhere is seemingly so gay ; 

While thankfully and cheerfully 

Each toiler rises carefully 
To enter into prayerfully the labors of the day. 



v%rn 




258 



Hlorning 

S. T. CLARK, M. D. 

TTAIL, new-born day! Lo ! the expectant East 
Glows with a golden glory as we gaze ! 

The waking world bows low at heaven's font 

And waits a new babtism of the light; 

While sinless choristers, in chorus sweet, 

Chant praises from their emerald curtained choirs ! 

The tardy moon seems loitering for the sun ; 

She points her silver finger to the South 

As if she would away, yet lingers still, 

And watches, poised on yonder purple cloud, 

To see, if any open eye above 

Observes her dalliance with her royal love ! 

And now he comes — the father of the days — 
(That hand in hand like rosy maidens troop, 
In whirling dances through the halls of time.) 
He comes, with crimson sails and sapphire prow, 
With pennons — molten amethyst and gold, 
To plow the azure ocean of the air ! 

The virgin queen grows pale at his approach ; 
Half veils her face ; slips from the cloudy bank 
And hides a marble gleam of loveliness 
Beneath the waves of the ethereal blue ; 
There waits the glances of his burning love, 
Whose light alone has given her power to shine, 



259 



ctpostropfyc to 3unc 

MRS. I-,. J. H. FROST. 

f~\ JUNE ! Thy breezes seem bliss laden, like 
^^^ The breath of angels. Thy flower embroidered 
Robes are dripping wet with fragrance. And thy 
Smile is like the beam that gilds some mouldering 
Tower with golden light at evening. 

O June! 
Thy presence is a prophecy of good 
To come, a promise of the gifts our kind 
And loving Father hath in store for us ; 
A whisper of fair skies and music sweet 
That all day long shall haunt the mossy woods 
Where berries red and rich lurk cunningly 
Beneath green leaves. 

O June ! Why is thy stay 
So brief? Doth no one bid the welcome? Dost 
Thou tire of wasting thy rare melody 
On souls attuned to grief? When thou art gone 
Why should I linger? Could I bear to see 
Thy roses dead, crushed buds and withered sweets. 

Should I not sadly miss thy gifts of love 
And pine for thy companionship ? Ah, yes ; 
And ever and forever would my soul 
Be longing after thee and restful sleep 
Far better would it be, could we but be 
Exhaled together, while some loving friend 
Looked on and said, " Requiescat in pace." 




260 



Sooktng (Dutoarb 



T. PARK BUCHER. 

A S the stars fade into distance 

When the jocund day appears, 
Then are all ablaze at vespers 

In the temple of the spheres ; 
So the mind in looking outward 

Through the twilight and the gloom, 
Marks the fast retreating shadows 

Masquerading into doom, 
And anon the shining figures 

Emanating from the tomb. 

See the sun arise effulgent 

Over forest, field and fane, 
Supplementing fair Aurora's 

With his own transcendent reign ; 
So the mind has aspirations 

For a realm of lofty thought, 
From the boundless plane of knowledge 

With its strong incentives fraught, 
To the heights where wisdom lingers, 

Where sublimest truths are sought. 



Like the spring warms into summer, 
Bursting bud to flowering plume, 

And the hardy orchard blossom 
Bears an apple in its womb ; 



261 



So the mind expands and strengthens, 
Seeing with its practised eye 

How to weave the web of fancy 
And the filament supply, 

How to voice its ripe perceptions 
That the wrath of time defy. 

While the fog o'er hangs the ocean, 

Ships bewildered ride the foam, 
When it lifts they find their bearings 

And the breezes speed them home ; 
So from mists of doubtful seeming 

Mind will languish to be free, 
Only as its insight clears up 

Can its outlook 'cross the sea 
Fill the soul with inspiration 

To attain its destiny. 



262 



IMavc Qntonys Dealt) 



EUGENE A. DAVIS. 



T AM dying, Egypt, dying, 

Look ! the old Nile seems to know, 
For its friendly waters slacken 
In their never-ceasing flow. 

The big sun blazes whitely, 

The palms are drooped and sere — 

But you, fair Cleopatra, 
Must never shed one tear. 

Cleo ! Cleo ! Egypt ! 

I say you should not weep, 
Nor Charmian, nor pale Iras, 

But on my life-deeds keep. 

Sing of my glorious actions ; 

Sing in your wildest measure, 
Sing of the ill-fed Cassius, 

Sing for it is my pleasure ; 

Sing to me, too, of Brutus, 

Of the envious Casca's fate ; 
On my head put my great steel helmet, 

To my side gird my sword of State. 

And chant to me then of Caesar 
Whose spirit with Jove rules above. 

Of noble, superb Enobarbus — 

But, sing to me last of your love. 

Enobarbus and poor slain Caesar 

Waiting there, wave me to go, 
Their red-stained shrouds glisten ghost-like, 

I must leave you, ah, rare Cleo ! 

To your breast, oh, my Cleopatra ! 

Once more then clasp me near — 
I am dying, Egypt, dying, 

But your love is very dear. 

263 



Ct]c Sweet Wxlb Hose 



W. H. H. HINDS. 

f^l THE sweet wild rose, wherever it grows — 
^^ On mountain desert or farm, 
Has a blossom so fair and a fragrance so rare, 
It lends to the place a charm. 

No other wild flower in hedge or in bower, 

No matter where'er it grows, 
Can with it compare, nor equally share 

Our love for the sweet wild rose. 

It blossoms and blooms round the graves and tombs 

Of friends who have gone before ; 
And we seemingly think 'tis with Heaven a link, 

And the loved on the other shore. 

Its fragrance so rare oft burdens the air 

Of the desert's barren plain, 
And it visits the cot of the lowly in lot, 

To ease their sickness and pain. 

It brightens the eye and softens the sigh 

Of the felon in his cell, 
As it fills the air with its perfume where 

Deep sorrow and sadness dwells. 

O the sweet wild rose, when these eyes shall close 

On this beautiful world so fair, 
May it blossom and wave o'er our humble grave, 

And its fragrance fill the air. 



264 



CI E>ong, of tfye llnattaineb 



I ; ( >B BET R EX DALE. 



'THAT day of days, long, long ago, 

Its memory gilds the years, 
When o'er two lives Love's golden light 

Shone through the mists of tears. 
The minstrel sang, " Fame's gift is mine, 

Forever and for aye ! " 
Youth's blissful dreams o'erbrimmed the heart 
And bade its wild unrest depart ; 

That far-off summer day, 

Bre life was old and gray. 

That day of days, long, long ago, 

How bright its glories gleam ; 
Though heart hath drifted far from heart, 

Like leaves upon the stream ! 
The heather blooms as gay again, 

The lark sing's just as clear ; 
But ah ! the dream of youth is flown, 
The minstrel sleeps unloved, unknown, 

No homage greets his ear, 

Nor garlands deck his bier. 



265 
R 



Brother, ^crint IXot 



JACOB B. DOCKENDOBFP. 

DROTHER, faint not; look not upon thy sorrow 

As though 'twere sent in wrath to work thy fall ; 
Perchance to-day thy woes may cease — to-morrow 

May bring thee joys that will dispel them all : 
He who is wiser than earth's sons and daughters 

Knows what is best, and scourgeth but to bless ; 
When thou art least aware, grief's bitter waters 

Will be transformed into deliciousness. 

Brother, faint not ; hast thou not known the pleasure 

That azure sky and sunshine brings to thee 
After thou hast enjoyed a dreary measure 

Of storms and clouded sky or angry sea? 
And dost thou still refuse, in wanton blindness, 

To see a blessing, even in distress? 
And canst thou, in return for loving kindness, 

Tender a spirit of unthankfulness ? 

Brother, faint not ; love is refined by crosses, 

And hearts grow cold when dead to hopes and fears ; 
We cherish most what we have won by losses; 

The purest joy is ever mix'd with tears : 
Cease to repine, the storm may now be breaking, 

And sunshine soon will chase the clouds away ; 
A rest remains when, all thy woes forsaking, 

Joy shall be perfected in endless day. 



266 



H%n tfje Srcmm is UTixcb unit] (Bray 



JOHN M. STAHL. 



QTANDING in the doorway waiting 

All impatient for his tread, 
With the level sunbeams making 

Golden crowns upon her head — 
Golden brown his sweetheart's tresses 

As she waits at close of day: 
Will she wait for his caresses 

When the brown is mixed with gray? 

Hard, indeed, the long hours' labor 

'Neath the burning sun to plow, 
But he feels he is 'rewarded. 

By the scene that greets him now. 
Longing for her lovelit glances 

He has labored all the day: 
Will he long as life advances — 

When the brown is mixed with gray? 

Ah, her watchful eyes have spied him, 

She is coming down the path; 
Surely wealthiest prince of India 

No such precious treasure hath! 
Will she watch that she may meet him, 

Tripping lightly down the way, 
Will she kiss him as she greets him, 

When the brown is mixed with gray? 



267 



CL (5rcy Say by tl^c Sea 

MRS. J. H. ROGERS. 

A COLD, dark sky of ashen grey. 

A bare, brown, desolated earth — 
With dreary monotone its dull continuous plaint 
The leaden waves beat moaning on the shore. 
Above, below, not yet on dark and turbid waves 
Gleams there on ray or hint of sun 
Save at the dark horizon's edge, 
Where earth, and wave, and sky 
Seem blended in a hopeless ashen pall, 
A soft, faint gleam of light, 
A golden whisper sweet and low 
Accents the line and to the dying day 
Makes promise of to-morrow's warmth and light. 

And is this Life? That hopeless somber sky? 

This brown, burnt somber earth and pitiless rock — 

With raw, crude colors unrefined by fire 

Like passionate souls, untried, unpurified? 

Oh, cold blank Fate of hopeless Circumstance ! 

Against whose pitiless strength the suffering tide. 

Of human life beats groaning without hope ! 

Oh ! heartless earth and heaven ! Oh ! cruel Life ! 

Is there no help? Yea — even now the east 

With soft, faint, tremulous radiance is gleaming 

Presaging to despairing, desperate hearts, 

A deathless hope of coming light and life, 

Take heart, oh, weary one, of Hope's faint promise given. 

Of tender healing Motherhood of Nature 

Of faithful, loving Fatherhood of God 

Of loyal, gracious Brotherhood of Man. 

268 




Jb°S1<>K T>KoTo<,HAvcj^E XF. 



l\$on tfyc *Rwcv 



THOS. J FARLEY. 

H^HE sunlight fades upon the river 

At close of day ; 
Its beams of golden glory quiver 

And die away ! 
And in the tinted shades they make 
The drowsy blossoms bend and shake 

The wavelets in the splendor play 
Upon the river. 

With grandest light the sun is beaming 

When the day is done ; 
A night of rest through twilight's gleaming 

Day's toil has won. 
Appearing stars, the " queen of night," 
Reflect the sun's just vanished light ; 
Dispensing rest— so fades the sun 

Upon the river. 

So when the day of life is ended 

And all its play, 
And all its toil in peace are blended, 

A good life may 
Unto the soul grant rest — and then 
Its brightest acts be reproduced in men ; 
Thus let life's sunlight pass away 

On time's vast river. 



269 



Stoncit>al[ 3acfcson 

M. H. M. ADAM. 

T^ACH war-scarred veteran who stands 

To-day with bowed uncovered head 
Above long buried hopes, as bend 

Grief-stricken mothers o'er their dead, 
Must feel within his loyal heart 

Some throbbing of the old time pride, 
As when beneath the "stars and bars'' 

They met the foemen side by side. 

We drift on memory's silvery wave 

Back through the tide of pulsing years, 
To blood stained, sacred shrines where rose 

The incense of a nation's tears ; 
To purple altars where we laid 

Onr bravest, truest and our best — 
To battle fields where those we loved 

Sank down to an immortal rest. 

Ah ! who among this gallant band 

Could look with careless, tearful eyes 
Upon the quiet, lowly mound 

Where glorious Stonewall Jackson lies ? 
He 'rose beyond all other men, 

To none was such deep homage given 
Barth, all unworthy, lifted up 

Her richest, rarest gift to heaven. 

The very angels bent their heads 

In silence as his spirit passed, 
And veiled their gold-fringed eyes before 

The dazzling splendor that it cast. 
270 



The cause we loved and lost went down 
Trailing its tattered robes in gore 

But every Southern heart must hold 
It sacred for the hopes it bore. 

And if within its fleeting life 

No other light nor glory shone. 
This were enough — against the world 

Brave Lee and Jackson were our own. 
Our cause was theirs, their triumphs ours 

For us Lee lived and Jackson died ; 
No banner ever blushed to wave 

O'er two such heroes side by side. 

And down the ages yet to come 

Their deeds will peerless glory shed. 
When victors and the vanquished shall 

Alike lie silent — with the dead. 
And we who gather here to-day 

May yield the tribute of our tears 
For those we loved who wore the gray 

And bravely fought for four long years. 



271 



{Efye past anb future 

X. A WOODWARD. 

A S fades from sight the vale — the winding stream, 

And landscape fair — when daylight wraps her robes 
Of golden splendor round her ruddy form, 
And seeks repose beneath the western " sky, — 
So disappear, in age, our childish dreams — 
The gay companions that were gathered then — 
The hallowed places which we knew of old — 
The paths once trod — with flowers thickly strewn, — 
Whose hidden pebbles bruised our heedless feet; — 
The rugged road that early manhood sought, 
And traveled o'er ; — the ceaseless toil and strife 
Of after years, with their bewildering cares — 
And bustling diligence — that shunned repose — 
As weary oft, and worn, we battled on 
From day to day, to reach some distant goal. 
As age creeps on — and shadows fall around, 
At twilight's hour, in thoughtful silence wrapt — 
We oft recall glad days of by-gone years. 
Yet who can e'er depict the forms that rise, 
When memory doth wave her magic wand 
Above the closing portals of the past, 
And conjures up the varied scenes of yore^ — 
The hills and dales. — the flowery meads — the rills, 
And rippling brooks — the by-ways smoothly worn 
By playful feet — the youthful throng, whose lips 
With gayety and mirth were bubbling o'er — 
The changeful skies and fleecy-shifting clouds, 
Which fertile fancy wrought in pictured shapes, 
Now tinged by distance with a golden hue, 

212 



That doth adorn the olden pathway trod, 

When hope was young — and expectation wore 

A radiant crown — to fade — alas ! too soon ! 

As deeper shadows fall with gathering years, 

And shut the gladsome sunlight from the view, 

What tongue can tell the anxious thoughts that rise 

Unbidden, as the eager eye is strained 

To catch some outline of our future lot, 

And sees but gloomy shapes and dismal clouds, 

That hide a rugged path o'er craggy steeps, 

And up interminable mountain sides ! 

Yet, since the future none can tell or know — 

'Twere wiser far, with joyous — trustful hearts, 

To bravely bear whatever ills betide, 

As onward in the march of life we tread ; 

And, till we reach that unknown shore toward which 

Each wayward — faltering footstep tends — so live 

That faith shall strengthen as the sight grows dim — 

And hope within the bosom shall not die. 

And though the world at our departure weep, 

So live — that we alone — at parting, smile. 



273 



JNO. W. EDDY. 

^FHE old church wall is beautiful now 

With a covering of silvery sheen, 
For the ivy has climbed to the steeple's brow 
And hung out its banner of green. 

It laid quiet hands on the crumbling stones 
And covered their fractures and scars, 

And singing of joy in its lapsing tones, 
It clambered away toward the stars. 

And now it rests on the rough, brown roof, 
Like a warp of the leaves of palm, 

Filled in with a glinting sun-ray roof, 
And touched with an infinite calm. 

The brown little sparrow there nestles and sings 
'Mong the fairy-framed arbors of leaves, 

Or tells his beads from the spray that swings 
In the cool of the shadowy eaves. 

Or darts anon through the rays of light, 
Till their gleams transfigure his crest, 

With the glories that sprinkle the sky at night, 
When the sun dips into the west. 

Or swoops again like a fragment of song 
Thrown down from the tune-laden air ; 

Or lovingly bends o'er the worshipful throng 
Like the lingering spirit of prayer. 

274 



And my thoughts climb up to a brown little nest 
'Mong the leaves of the whispering vine, 

Where at last the sparrow goes sweetly to rest 
In the lull of the day's decline. 

And many a lesson of life I heed 

On the beautiful ivy-clad wall — 
'Twere better to climb over rough rocks I read 

Than never to climb up at all ! 

And I learn again from the bird in the gleams, 

That joy will most surely abide 
With those who dwell longest on pleasure-fraught dreams, 

Who look most on life's sunny side. 

O Maker of sunshine and Giver of rest, 

In that other, that heavenly Vine, 
May I find rest in a glory-wrought nest 

When the day of my life shall decline. 



275 



Zlloonligfyt J}ours 

C. H. PRATT. 

TJOW pleasant at the close of day, 
Is lovely Cynthia's glowing ray, 

When lovers take a walk: 
Among the stars the crescent glows, 
As Orion its beauty shows, 

And nature's voices talk. 

'Tis love's sweet time at cottage-home, 
Where rural swains oft sighing come, 

Of cupid's joys to tell : 
If parents frown, they whisper still, 
Moments of ennui to fill, 

By true. love's magic spell. 

O'er mossy grave of sleeping dead, 
Do moonlight gleams a curtain spread, 

Of gilded, mellow hue: 
In midst of planetary space, 
Venus is rob'd with golden grace, 

Her pathway to pursue. 

Sighing, we think of other days, 
As memory far backward strays, 

To hours of youthful time : 
When we, with those who lie in dust, 
Did in the future fondly trust, 

Unvisited by crime. 

276 



As brightly Cynthia gleams in age, 
As when, on childhood's spotless page, 

We saw unfolding bliss : 
We may be poor, we may be old, 
Yet Luna smiles as bright as gold, 

Though clouds its border kiss. 

We'll wait, and trust, and trusting hope, 
As we with life's disasters cope, 

That we may heaven gain : 
That God himself will be the light, 
Of " Beulah Land " so pure and bright, 
On glory's gilded plain. 



£o tt]c Uovth Winb 



T. BERRY SMITH. 

DLOW loud, blow long, blow fierce and strong, 
• O North wind icy cold, 

Grasp all that's free, lock land and sea 
In thy relentless hold. 



Bring ice, bring snow, bring all you know 

Of winter's warlike things, 
Yet by my hearth good mistress Mirth 

In sweet contentment sings. 

Draw barb, draw blade, draw all that's made 

To try the world outside, 
Strike with thy might, hurt day and night 

Till woe the world betide. 

Make fears, make tears, make ills and cares, 
Send troubles thick and fast, 

Yet comfort's here and I've no fear 
Of thy relentless blast. 



277 



a Violet 



MARGARET MAY 



T^ROM underneath a wayside stone 

A violet peeped, with cheerful smile ; 
And though it blossomed there alone, 
I thought 'twas happy all the while. 



It drank the blessed sunshine in, 

And sweetly gave its best to God, 

The little flower my love did win, 

Tho' scarcely raised above the sod. 



With heavy heart, I sought the wood, 
Oppres't with fear of sorrow's pain ; 

It drew me from my faithless mood 
Back to a hopeful trust again. 



For in its lowly, modest face 

I traced my Father's tender care ; 

No one, no thing, no scene, no place, 

Too small His watchful love to share. 



I broke its stem most tenderly. 

I kissed it, wondering if it knew 
The good its smile had brought to me, 

As underneath the stone it grew. 



278 



3n dloubkmb 

M. V. DUDLEY. 

TN cloudland the sails are all set, 

And ready to float away, 
No one to follow with fond regret 

The vessels that leave to-day ! 
A message over valleys wide, 

And across the rivers deep, 
To warn whatever may betide 

That the winds are still asleep. 

The barks are slipping anchor fast 

On yon blue mystic sea; 
How long will their strange voyage last? 

Where will the clouds' harbor be? 
We wonder what is the precious freight 

They take on day after day, 
At unheard call of some weird fate, 

To never at one port stay ; 
But moving, moving slowly on, 

With a spell they cannot break ! 
Like phantom ships at early dawn, 

And no billows in their wake. 



279 



3n 211cmortam 

To the Prince Imperial of France. 

A. L,. MONROE. 

HIS DEPARTURE. 

T SAW a youth upon a vessel stand 

And heard the mother sob a sad farewell, 
I saw her tears, and her fond bosom swell 
As his proud ship sailed seaward from the strand; 
I heard the flopping of her sails on high, 
That bore him onward to his destiny. 
I saw him gaze upon his native land 
As o'er the Biscayou waves it rose to view, 
The vine-clad hills, and sunny fields of France; 
I heard him breathe to them a fond adieu, 
I saw bright visions sparkle in his eye, 
The rapture of his high and eagle glance, 
But could not see the fatal Zulu lance, 
That sped his name to immortality. 

HIS LANDING AND DEATH. 

I saw his vessel ride with favoring gales, 
And safely anchor on that sable shore, 
" Where midnight listens to the lions roar;'' 
I saw the seamen crowd her trembling rails, 
And furl aloft her white and flowing sails ; 
I saw him mount his gay and gallant steed 
And foremost into ambushed danger speed, 
Where evermore a savage reign prevails. 
I heard the Zulus still and stealthy tread, 
And saw at him their shining weapons hurled, 
That rent an Empire, and that shocked a world ; 
I saw his life-blood flowing warm and red, 
With none but foes to see him pass away 
In Afric's wilds, on that sad summer day. 

THE RECOVERY OF HIS REMAINS. 

Dull leaden clouds along the mountains hung, 
The nearer hills are clad in darkening mist, 
The orb of day the fleeting vapors kissed. 

280 



Near that black vail where night her shadows flung, 

Around the kraal the English squadrons swung 

In strong array above the peerless dead, 

With martial steps the holy rites were read, 

In quiet tones, with trembling lips — no tongue 

Spake loud command — no murmur shook the air, 

With arms reversed they marched the course they come 

With hearts subdued, they bore the hero there, 

Who scaled, so young, the shining cliffs of fame 

While strong in death he rose a victor true 

O'er British hearts — that child of Waterloo. 

HIS RETURN AND BURIAL. 

Far lies the land to which his ship must go, 

All hearts are sad that meet him on that shore, 

And eyes are dim that beamed on him before, 

As forth he sailed to meet the savage foe, 

On his young breast to feel the fatal blow, 

That made much people mourn and weep with her 

For whom there is but One sure comforter, 

To soothe her pangs of bitterness and woe, 

The childless mother and the widowed spouse. 

Oh! flags of England, droop above his grave; 

Oh ! soil of England, safely keep his dust; 

Ye oaks of England, high above him wave. 

In requiems o'er his grave at Chiselhurst, 

In sighs with her sad heart at Comden House. 



281 



Ctbrtft 

ALTON E. BULLARI). 

A SAILOR lashed to floating spars 

Watches the sun, the moon and stars 
That seem to mock and sail away, 
Returning with the night and day 

Drifting upon the ocean wide, 
Now here, now there, upon the tide ; 
Drifting, it seems in boundless space, 
Floating alone, an endless race. 

Floating, floating, now east, now west, 
Upon the waves that never rest ; 
Bourne to the far-off Southern clime, 
Adrift, for an eternal time. 

i 
Adrift ! no voice, no sound is heard 
Save now and then some monster bird 
That sails with shriek so lightly by, 
Leaving behind dark waves and sky. 

Adrift upon the angry wave, 
Whose arms reach out an open grave : 
His face is wet with tears and dew, 
Of which the sailor's wife ne'er knew. 



282 



©ctobcr 



F. A. SIKES. 



N' 



OW as autumn taps us gently, 

And her leaves are turning brown, 
We can see on yonder's hill-top 
Charming beauty painted 'round. 



We can see in forests wide, 
And are glad to welcome them, 
Tints of gold and crimson hue 
Which are nature's sweetest gem. 

In the hollows, on the hill-side, 
In the forests where we roam, 
We can see the festive squirrel 
Bearing treasure to his home. 

In the fields of yellow corn grain 
Where the flowers are known no more, 
We can see the farmer busily 
Gathering in his winter's store. 

We can see with looks of sorrow, 
Where the cruel frosts have laid 
To their earthly beds the daisies 
And the meadow's topmost blade. 

Yet 'mid the frost and flying leaves 
And the absence of the flowers, 
We can know some pleasure waits us 
At the dawn of winter hours. 



283 



!DouI6 IJou 2?egret 

JOSIE D. HEXDERSON-HEARD. 

\A7 0ULD you regret, 

If I within my shroud 
Lay dead, 
My voice forever still 
In death's embrace so chill, 
The words you've said 
Would you regret 
That we had met? 

Would you regret, 

As with the busy throng 

Yon pressed your way 

Along, 
You nevermore should see 
Or win a smile from me 
Would you regret 
That we had met? 

Would you regret 

As o'er my form you bent 

And sought one more 

Embrace, 
'Ere yet the coffin lid 
Forevermore had hid 
From you my face, 
Would you regret 
That we had met? 

Would you regret 

If I no more should stand 

Thy clasped hand 
In mine, 

The while your sheltering arm 

Safe shielded me from harm 
Would you regret 
That we had met? 

284 



Would you regret 
If to the silent tomb 
Strong arms should bear 

Me, hence ; 
Ah, dearest, would you miss 
My warm impassioned kiss, 

Would you regret 

That we had met? 

Would you regret 

That you had weary been 

With my short coinings often 

Sorely tried, 
Because forsooth one day 
I claimed to have my way, 
Your will defied, 

Will you regret 

That we had met ? 

Would calm regret 
Persuade you to the spot 
Where I were lowly laid, 
Would you bend low and shed 

A tear 
Above me calmly sleeping there, 

The words you've said 

Would you regret, 
Alas ! That we had met. 



285 



£fie Soutlf ianb 



MANLIUS T. KLIPPIN. 

f~\ REALM of the south land, fair clime of the sun ! 

Whose birds and whose blossoms enrapture the sight ; 
Whose valleys of emerald and mountains of dun, 

Smile sweetly in day time and gleam through the night. 

The sheen on thy meadows, the blue of thy sky, 
Shine on and forever with passionate glow ; 

And the morn, noon and evening unfold to the eye 
Thy wild wealth of flowers of crimson and snow. 

There the best gifts of spring-time forever remain, 

And the fruits and the blossoms their seasons prolong ; 

There the sweet-scented breezes float over the plain, 
And bear on their bosoms the incense of song. 

There the queen-like palmetto, the myrtle and vine, 
And the wild waste of blossoms environ the maze ; 

While the moss covered cypress and whispering pine, 
Throw over the valleys a soft summer haze. 

'Tis there the weird moonbeams are wandering through 
The ruins of castles distinguished in story ; 

And there that the shimmer and sparks of the dew, 
And the shine of the astral, unite in their glory. 

It is there, it is there that the murmuring palm 
Bends over and kisses the clear crystal wave; 

It is there that the flow'rets in the night's holy calm, 
Dip down in the waters, their beauties to lave. 

O beautiful south-land ! the shrine of the heart ! 

Land of the banana, the lemon and lime ! 
No sky and no clouds, no sun can impart 

Such a wild wealth -of passion as glows in thy clime. 

286 



And oh ! with what fervor the heart must adore 
The notes of thy soft harp, the song of thy bird ; 

While the sea-waves that break on the gray, rocky shore, 
Make music the wildest the ear ever heard. 

Thy picture, bright clime! shall glow in my breast — 
Thy sun-rays, in fancy around me shall beam ; 

And shrined in my heart still thy glories shall rest 
Forever and aye, like some beautiful dream. 

Smile on, blessed land ! thou art lovely and lorn, 
With thy deep-tangled wild-wood and shadowy hills ; 

Still back on the tide of my raem'ry is born 

The sound of thy cascades, the song of thy rills. 

O bright, sunny South, though shattered and torn, 
And rent by the strife of war-darkened years; 

Though broken, and bleeding, and mangled and shorn, 
Thy beauty and glory still smile through thy tears. 

And now that the war cloud obscure thee no more, 
Remember thine honor, thy glory remains ; 

And the wealth and the worth that adorned thee of yore, 
Shall, Phoenix-like, rise from the wreck of thy plains. 



287 



Ct]c prodigal Daughter 

LARRY CHITTENDEN. 

TN the springtime of youth, in life's early morning, 

When the blossoms were blowing from the old apple trees, 
And wisteria vines with their purple adorning. 

Were wooing the zephyrs and rich yellow bees, 
The prodigal came to the home of his leaving, 

Where he played in the daisies a light-hearted boy, 
And they welcomed him back, with the tears of receiving, 

And twining affection, and murmurs of joy. 

When the cold winds of winter were sighing so dreary 

Around the old house by the murmuring shore, 
The prodigal daughter, all tired and weary, 

Crept back to the home of her girlhood once more. 
But they turned her away, o'er the moorland so lonely, 

And the winds of despair moaned wild through her breast, 
And death was her refuge, aye, that, and that only, 

For the prodigal daughter alas has no rest ! 



Ct 21!i6ntgl?t Kcr>cry 

J. H. EDWARDS. 

PHE startled echoes, brood of dreary sounds 
Awoke my midnight hammer, back return ! 

Aroused from sleepy silence, sharp they burn 
The smitten conscience, which, amidst the mounds 
Of buried dead (the graves new-made in grounds 

Uncultivate, the burial place and stern 

Of slighted good), now seeks a short sojourn 
Where all but it with peaceful rest abounds. 
But precious Time, the blest God-given Time 

Allowed to run to waste, repeats its knell, 
As each unwelcome hammer strikes its chime. 
My God ! how startling rings that stricken bell ! 
How truly conscience mourns the horrid crime 

Of ill-spent time ? O Wasted Hours, farewell ! 
288 



2Tly tittle pari 

[To Marshall P. Wilder.] 

BY CAPTAIN JACK CRAWFORD, " THE POET SCOUT." 

TIE came like a ray of laughing light, 
Athwart the horizon of my night, 
And the gathering clouds were dissolved in air, 
As the snow bank melts in the sun's warm glare, 
And my crouching soul felt the wakening kiss, 
Of his livening, sparkling, contagious bliss, 
And warring troubles threw down its guard, 
And succumbed to my merry little pard. 

A new day dawned on my troubled life ; 
A new sky, free from the clouds of strife, 
Above like a crystal canopy hung, 
And glad songs thrilled my once silent tongue,. 
His face seemed a beacon to lead me forth 
To jollity's South from despondency's North, 
And I felt all my throbbing soul award 
Its warmest love to my little pard. 

May the golden chain which unites our souls, 
Grow stronger as time to eternity rolls, 
And, warmed by the Master's approving smile,, 
May the links new lustre gain all the while ; 
And when at the summons we speed above 
To the sunny realms of Omnipotent love, 
In earnest accents I'll pray the Lord 
To let me mess with my little pard. 



289 



Co (Dnrilla 

.1. W. EVERETT. 

"\ 1 rE stood on the bridge at sunset, 

With the beautiful blue sky above, 
And the last bright rays of the sunshine 
Kissed the tree-tops with kisses of love. 

The river was murmuring beneath us, 
And the wavelets just rippling along, 

Kissed the banks that were rocky and mossy, 
While gurgling their sweet little song. 

The magnolia bowed toward the surface, 
And the leaves bent down as to say : 

O, sweet, pretty, bright, rippling wavelets ! 
O, give us sweet kisses to-day ! 

And then we looked just up the river, 

And there on an old snaggy tree, 
Far out on a limb o'er the water, 

Sat an owl just as wise as could be. 

And ming'ed with the murmuring water 
We heard the "tweet-tweet'' of a bird — 

I remember, dear, something you said then, 
Oh, how I listened to every word ! 

You said that you wanted a picture 
Of the scene we were gazing at then. 

Oh, how I would paint you that picture 
Could I write with a poet's good pen. 

And I remember as we stood there and listened 
To the lowing of the far-distant herd, 

That our hearts spoke love to each other, 
Though our lips uttered never a word. 

Orvilla ! though pen and brush fail me 
In sketching the scene of that day, 

Yet memory will cherish the picture 
That blesses and cheers my way. 

290 



WxVb Hoses 



O E. YOUNG- 



tt 7ILD roses bloom by the brooklet's side, 
Where it sleeps in a deep, dark pool, 
And the waving trees of the forest hide 

Fresh moss in their shadows cool. 
They star the billowy banks of green, 

Each nodding its caly bright, 
As the wandering breezes glide in between 

Caressing with touch so light. 

No gaudy flower from a florist's stand, 

No pampered and scentless thing, 
But a blossom fresh as from God's own hand, 

Drinking deep from the crystal spring, 
With a heart like the heart of a shell of pearl 

Down under the cool, green sea, 
As bright as the cheek of a blushing girl 

In her maidenly modesty. 

But rude hands, touching the slender stem, 

May scatter the leaves it bore, 
And the fair flower, pure as a priceless gem, 

Lie shattered forevermore. 
Yet the careless hand and the selfish soul 

Spoil the blossoms of light and joy ; 
And, alas! wild roses are not the whole 

That a rude touch can destroy. 



291 



Seeking tfyc itgfyt 



LESTEK M. HOUCH. 

A ROSE tree climbed by the window side, 
Coronated over with green, 
And ambient kisses of sun-lit May, 
And crystal dews at the close of day, 
Moved the pearly buds that folded hide 
The crown of the summer's queen. 

Under the steps of stone so cold, 

Under the steps in dearth and mold 

A strong root ran that felt the life 

Of the outside world with beauty rife — 

And it peeped a tendril up to see 

If any chance of growth could be : 

Not a hint was there of sun or dew, 

Not a gleam of light the darkness through ; 

Only cobwebs and clay and pebbles and dust, 

It must grow through these, if grow it must. 

The roses bloomed by the window side, 
Creamy and sweet and fair ; 
The royal crowns of a royal June, 
The gold of a summer's golden noon ; 
Cups of the Gods, distilling wide, 
Ambrosia on the air. 

Above the steps of stone so cold, 

Above the steps a tale was told 

Of life that would live because it must, 

Of life and growth in darkness and dust ; 

For a green leaf smiled at the flow'rets fair, 

Showering their glory everywhere ; 

And more to me than the roses gold, 

Was the wealth of praise one leaf could hold. 

Ah, leaf as brave! how many there be 

In human life, seeking HgJit like thee ! 



Ct Song 



W. V. LAWRANCE 

CHE sat where the sunlight was falling, 

Soft blows the wind o'er the lea ! 
Gay birds in their love notes were calling, 
Sweetly from hedge-row and tree. 

She sighed as she thought of her lover, — 
Soft sighs the wind o'er the lea, — 

For long has he now been a rover 
Tossed on the waves of the sea. 

" Oh, sing, merry birds !" cried the maiden, — 
Low sings the wind o'er the lea, — 

" Ah, sing ! since my heart heavy-laden 
Joins not your sweet minstrelsy. 

" Each bird seeks its mate in these bowers," — 
Low sobbed the wind o'er the lea, — 

" The sunshine and dews kiss the flowers, 
No one has kisses for me." 

But hark to a step swiftly nearing, — 
Hushed grew the wind o'er the lea, — 
" Sweet Jenny!" came softly, endearing, 
" Love brings sweet kisses to thee !" 

She laughs through glad tears softly flowing,- 
Low laughs the wind o'er the lea, — 

Her cheeks hot with kisses are glowing, 
Kisses brought over the sea ! 



293 



3s it not §tkc? 

HENRY W. NAISBITT. 

^PHIS life is like an English lane, 

By summer draped in living green ; 
We try to pierce beyond, in vain, 
It dwindles to a point unseen ! 

Yet as we pass, anon we trace, 

Far reaching vistas through the trees;— 
The distant city, spires of grace, 

The silvery stream, or tidal seas ! 

Silence at hand, but turning life, 
Not far, yet distant, farther yet, 

This earth and man, for ever rife, 
Though rising sun or solemn set ! 

So all existence, bounded seems, 
'Tis veiled from sight at either end, 

Yet oft the loneliest have their dreams, 
Of mists, past or present trend ! 

And then, the vistas open out , 

Beyond life's narrow weary round ; 

A backward look, the forward route, 
Eternities the only bound ! 

Oh swelling life, the past was mine, 
The present but the leafy lane, 

Far o'er the horizon doth shine, 
The life to come, the past again ! 



294 



£D)e Stars Shine (Dut 

WALTER TAYLOR FIELD. 

'T^HE stars shine out and gild the sky, 

Softly the night winds breathe and sigh ; 

And as the world fades from my sight 

I feel the presence of the night 
Wrapped in its strange deep mystery. 

Dark vapors rise — their fingers lie 
Coldly upon my brow, but I 

Lift up my startled gaze, and bright 
The stars shine out. 

Trust on, sad heart, nor question why 
The shadows and the night draw nigh. 
The mists of doubt will melt in light 
God's face will put them all to flight 
Till then, look up, for still on high 
The stars shine out. 



Cfye doming of 2Tigfyt 

THEO C. ATCHISON. 

1VTIGHT comes slowly through the vale, 

With dark hair streaming in the breeze 
And clinging wildly 'mong trees, 
A muttering low her sad heart's wail. 
Eyes strangely wild, darkness creeping in her trail. 
Now bares her brown, strong arm to seize 
Soft rays that chance to remain, these 
Crushes madly in her hands, then to the gale 
Unlooses them. Next with a frown, 
And rising anger in her eyes, 
And face all dark with gloomiest scorn 
Mounts upward, and in heaven's crown 
Puts glistening stars ; then from the darkening skies 
Decends and drowsily waits the morn. 

295 



Wessons of §ifc 

W. F. FONVIELLE. 

T ONG years, oh yes, they come and go, 

Our loved ones pass away ; 
And through God's kindness we are left, 

To wait some other day. 
Just as the flowers bloom and fade, 

Man lives out his existence, 
Both are subject to his sway, 

Both crave for his assistance. 

The seasons change, as all things do, 
While time keeps on its rolling. 

The child is born — to manhood grown — 
Some bell for him is tolling. 

Our lessons learned, we are not through 

With all of time's endeavor ; 
We only wait some other change 

To waft us on forever. 
All strewn along the beach of life 

Are wrecks like driftwood lying ; 
They're only mistakes, here and there 

Washed on the sea beach — drying. 

The sun shone bright, the sea was calm 
When these first left the landing, 

But life's mad waves have lashed them all 
And one by one they're stranding. 



296 



Summer ITigfyt 



MRS. L. B. MARQUIS. 

(~\ SOFTLY the south wind is blowing to-night, 
^^^ And the stars are their vigils keeping, 
While the shadows play with the breezes light 
In each nook where the moon is peeping. 

And the day-world's noise and its hurrying thiong, 
Are passed, with all passionate feeling, 

And the dreamy lull ol the insect song, 
O'er my senses is softly stealing. 

Just under my window a cricket sings 

Of the summer evening's glory, 
And a whip-poor-will in an alder swings, 

And breathes to the night his sad story. 

Where a tiny brook on its way to the sea, 

Like a silvery thread is gleaming, 
The blossoms that woke at the song of the bee, 

Of his flattering love-words are dreaming. 

High up in a sheltering maple tree 

Where the green leaves are gently flitting, 

A robin chirps in his dreamy glee, 
To the mother-bird near him sitting. 

O summer night thou hast treasures as fair, 

As the pictures seen in a vision, 
And songs as sweet as are breathed on the air 

Of the beautiful land — Elysian. 



297 



CI (Lixnligfyt 2)ream 



MRS. O. C. JONES. 

TTAND clasped in hand, midst the clover we walked, 

In the gloaming long ago ; 
The moonbeams kissed the peach blooms pink, 

Coqnettishly peeping to and fro. 
How the stars blinked in the calm, azure sky ; 
How the moon smiled down, with inquisitive eye, 
While the sweet south wind came prying by, 
And the still hours of the night drew nigh. 
Yet hands clasped in the orchard path we walked, 
And — zoe mou, sas agapo — fondly talked, 

In the gloaming long ago. 

Ah, how the old, old love comes back 

As I think of it to-night; 
Strange such a silly, idle dream 

A woman's heart can blight ; 
For love is only a blosom of June — 
The waning light of the changing moon — 
The sweetest note of a tender tune 
That floats on a lovely afternoon, 
Charming the heart and the senses away, 
Alluring us on with enchanting lay, 

That endeth all to soon. 

'Twas only a dream — tis over now, 

We have cast the barbie away, 
And we'll forget the broken thing 
That in fragments around us lay ; 
Yet oh, how oft in my dreams I see 
A vision of joy that used to be, 
My soul is sad with a memory 
Of flowers and moonlight, love and thee, 
In dreams we walked in that silvery light, 
Hand clasped in hand, as that summer's night, 

When our hearts were happy and free. 

298 



" Zoe mou, sas agapo y '' — whispers a flower, 
Hush, hush ! she must never know, 

You bartered our troth for a golden dower — 
'Tis better that it were so. 

Oh, love is a bird that comes with spring ; 

When cold winds blow it plumes its wing 

And flies away, yet still will ring 

Through lonely years its echoing. 

The moombeams fade, and the soft winds sigh, 

For the phantom of love is passing by, 
Yet — 'tis only imagining. 



299 



Ctt iovc's (Bate 



THOMAS S. COLLIER. 

OVE came to me one summer day 
Amid the mounds of fragrant hay. 
Laughed in my face, and went his way. 

Again, when autumn woods aflame 
With gold and scarlet were, he came, 
And whispered low a dainty name. 



And when the hills grew white with snow, 
And high north winds began to blow, 
He passed me by with footsteps slow. 



And now I wonder, will he bring 
His priceless gift when robins sing, 
And blossoms fleck the path of spring? 



For by the roadway to his gate, 
Clad as befits my lowly state, 
Humbly, a suppliant I wait. 



300 



(Eompensation 



W. V. LAWRANCE. 

TF it were truly known 

To the young bud just bursting into bloom 
That such sweet death led to forgotten tomb, 

Yet should it haste to be a rose full-blown, 
Although that bloom the richer life destroy, 

Since dying thus gives joy. 

Nor should the lark be dumb ; 
The skies are his to cleave with joyous wing, 
And songs ecstatic soaring there to sing, 

Whose melodies float through the years to come: 
Should he, through fear of death, refuse his song, 

He doth the world a wrong ! 

The world is full of love : 
Some empty heart for want of it is sad ; 
One breath blown warm will make that faint heart glad ! 

O heart love full! wilt thou refuse to move 
Because, perchance, false hearts will love betray? 

Give what thou canst alway. 

It is not self alone, — 
Nay, less of self and more of all beside 
Makes joy so sweet! Our hearts should open wide 

If in them Love, or Song, or Rose unblown : 
Of what we have, we should most freely give, 

And thus life twofold live. 



301 



Dcab 



MRS. H. B. CARTER. 



TTUSH and tread softly, our darling is dead, 
The wind sings a requiem over his head, 
Away from our sight they have laid him to rest, 
Bitter and sorrow, but God knoweth best. 

Hush and tread softly, our darling hears not, 
He has laid down his armor, his battle is fought, 
He knows not our sorrow, he sees not our tears, 
He heeds not our anguish, nor quiet our fears. 

Hush and tread softly, our darling is gone, 
Away from his kindred, away from our home, 
The boatman pale came, at the dip of his oar 
He left us and crossed to the beautiful shore. 

Hush and tread softly, oh, darling, oh why 
Were you taken from us ? oh why must you die ? 
Our home is so desolate, we are sadly bereft, 
Thou our only treasure, not one have we left. 

Hush and tread softly, our hearts would be broken 
Save for God's love, of which this is a token ; 
He has chastened us sorely in infinite love, 
That we rest our affections in heaven above. 

Hush and tread softly, none but Jesus just now 
Can comfort our hearts or lessen our woe, 
Submissive we bow, to the Rock did we fly, 
Its shelter our refuge as the storm passes by. 



302 



tEfye Burial at Sea 

GEORGE W. WARDER. 

XHE ocean is wide where the billows abide, 
And the ship o'er its bosom was hasting, 
While the ebb of life's tide to the stranger who died 
Was silently ebbing and wasting. 

A stranger was he on the ship and the sea, 
And his prayers they were wild and imploring, 

For he dreaded the fate that his fate was to be 
'Neath the waves that were plunging and roaring. 

He called on the Lord of the tempest and storm 

In frenzied and helpless despairing, 
While the anguish of death was racking his form — 

Alas, for the sick and sea-faring ! 

All in vain was his prayer, for death's terror was there,. 

And he died far from land on the ocean, 
Without mother or friend, or sweetheart so fair, 

To offer their love or devotion. 

He died, ah ! he died like a waif from the strand, 

That floated afar and unknowing, 
On the breast of the sea where there stretched not a hand, 

To a bubble that strayed from its mooring. 

He died far away ere the noon of his day, 
In the pride of his strength ere its zenith, 

And no more will they smile in his fair Emerald Isle,. 
At the sound of his footsteps that cometh. 

303 



They wrapt him about in the flag of the free, 

And freely the breezes they kissed him ; 
For no mother was there to mingle her prayer, 

With the waves that rose up and caressed him. 

'Twas the Sabbath of rest, and calm was his breast, 
For the dread of the ocean had left him ; 

And he shuddered not once as he touched its cold crest, 
And the dark billows tossed far above him. 

He was buried at sea — this stranger was he, 
God knew, but none otheis did know him; 

And they made him a grave 'neath the deep ocean wave, 
Where the wild winds are sighing above him. 

And the wild waves forever their vigils will keep, 

In their surging and endless commotion; 
But who knows what eyes for his coming may weep, 

And grow old in their loving devotion? 

Who knows what the hopes and the aims of his life ? 

What his struggles, temptations and sorrow? 
Alas ! how they vanished in silence and strife, 

As ours may vanish to-morrow. 

Like him we may sleep a thousand fathoms deep, 
Where the monsters disport in the ocean ; 

But it matters not where, in the sea or the air, 
If the God of all truth is our portion. 



304 



tEfyose tDtttotr* IDfytstles Sike 21Iy (Srcmbpct 
llscft to UTake 



TED EANTZ. 

r ~P O me the sweetest music 

Keeps ringing in my ears, 
Though those strains have long grown silent, 

Deep buried in the years ; 
Though I know the skilled musician 
In agony would quake 
At the shrieking of those whistles 
Like my grandpa used to make. 

A thousand recollections 

Rise up with every note 
Of that high, squeaky music 

That from bygone days does float ; 
I think of that capricious creek 

That rippled through the brake 
As I hear those willow whistles 

Like my grandpa used to make. 

When he and I were children — 

He was eighty, I was eight — 
I loved those trips to grandpa's farm, 

For them could hardly wait ; 
Then grandpa through the woods would plod, 

I'd toddle in his wake, 
Tooting on a willow whistle 

Like my grandpa used to make. 



305 



How I admired grandpa's farm ! 

The creek for fish was great, 
And in that mucky prairie ground 

I found such dandy bait ! 
And quickly did those willow swamps 

My youthful fancy take : 
They'd make so many whistles 

Like my grandpa used to make. 

I know you'll think it foolish — 

But something's in my throat 
As those childish fancies 

Through my memory do float. 
I but ask you not to laugh at me 

For being such a "Jake" 
As to dream of willow whistles 

Like my grandpa used to make. 




306 



Ct Sea Cfyougfyt 

HELENA M. TUCKER. 

L)UDS the sunbeams never quickened, 
Leaves that never felt the breeze, 
Torn from darkest depths of ocean 

Relics, children, of the seas. 
On the rocks their trailing garlands 

Dripping, bruised and broken cling, 
While upon the cliffs are tossing 

Myriad flowers of the spring, 
Which 'neath azure skies are glowing 

In the sunlight bright and warm, 
Knowing not the strife and turmoil 
Of the storm. 

Some there are as gay and careless 

In their glad prosperity, 
As the bright hued wild flowers nodding 

On the cliffs above the sea ; 
For their hearts are filled with pleasures, 

And their thoughts are of their own. 
So they care not for the struggles, 

Griefs, and trials, of those thrown 
Like the sea-weeds, by the breakers, 

On the rocks each ruined form 
Marred and broken — a grim relic 
Of life's storm. 



307 



Ct]c (Barben Seat 



THEODORE C. ATCHISON. 

A 1 fHERE the river, softly winding creeps along the vale 

With the moonlight shimmering on it, faint and pale, 

Ivy-covered now and hidden from the way of passing feet, 

And with flowers springing 'round it sits the crumbling 

garden seat. 

There's a throng of memories stealing from the past's dark 

tomb. 
Some are glad and cheering, and some are full of gloom, — 
'Tis joy with sadness enshrouded for the past and present 

meet 
When I stand alone and pensive beside the crumbling 

garden seat. 

Hushed and silent now the voices that murmured sweetly 

low 
Words of love and hope's ambitions in the long ago ; 
Folded now the hands that wearied with the labor's toil and 

heat 
Came to woo and rest at evetide on the crumbling garden 

seat. 

Here have children played and frolicked in the days gone 

by- 
Lifetime's happy springtide hours, Oh, too soon ye fly! — 
Silver-haired, now bowed and going on slow trembling feet 
They are yearning for the quiet of the crumbling garden 

seat 

308 



Here came she my queenly beauty whose fair lustrous eyes 
Far outshone the stars above us, mirrored in the skies. 
Pure and holy, ah ! and happy as when heaven's angels 

meet 
Was our meeting at the evetide on the crumbling garden 

seat 

But I've drained to dregs the chalice that my lips so soon 

had pressed — 
Closed in death the eyes of wonder, quiet now her faithful 

breast, 
And I'm seeking, vainly looking, for the joyous, laughing 

greet 
Of the face that smiled up at me from the crumbling garden 

seat. 

By the river that softly winding, creeps along the vale 
With the moonlight shimmering on it faint and pale; 
With its memories sad and lonely and from way of passing 

feet, 
With the flowers springing 'round it sits the crumbling 

garden seat. 




309 



Cf]c Swiss " (Soob * Htgfyt '' 



GEORGE BANCROFT GRIFFITH. 




OW somber-hued twilight adown the Swiss 
valley 
Her soft, dewy mantle has silently spread, 
Still kissed by the sun-rays, how grandly and 
brightly 
The snowy-crowned summits lift far overhead ! 



'Tis the sweet "Alpine hour," when the night is descending 
To brood o'er the homes where the cottagers dwell; 

And the sweet Rans des Vac he s no longer is blending 
With silence — 'tis evening, the time of farewell. 

And yet once again the huntsman is taking 

His trumpet-toned horn from its hook o'er the door. 

Hark! All the rapt silence its music is waking — 
" Praise the Lord God y evermore! — evermore /" 

Clear, sharp and distinct, down the mountains repeating, 
In solemn succession voice answereth voice, 

Till e'en the lost chamois will hush his wild bleating, 
And the heart of the forest awake and rejoice. 

Still higher and higher the anthem is ringing, 

It rolls like a paean of triumph above, 
Till ev'ry grand summit and tall peak is singing 

While bathed in the smile and halo of love ! 

O magical hour ! O soul-offered duty ! 

So solemn, instructive, its noble refrain ; 
What an exquisite scene, when God's rainbow of beauty 

Speaks the language of promise to mortals again ! 



310 



And when all the glory of sunset has faded 

From cloud-piercing heights, and the stars twinkle out, 

How mellow the echo of " Good-night," repeated 
To ev'ry lone dwelling with musical shout ! 

The chain of affection to God and each other 

' So perfectly linking and welding aright : 
When fondly the accents — "Hail, neighbor and brother!'' 
Melt in the broad air with — "Good-night, friend, 
G o o-d - n-i-g-h-t ! " 







«ra 









LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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